Dylan
by The Other J-D
Summary: The 67 chapters of this story will feature genderflipped versions of every character who was ever seen speaking on Daria . This genderflip to end all genderflips will feature not just one or two genderflipped characters, but all of them, from versions of Daria, Jane, and Quinn all the way down to nameless figures who appeared just once and uttered only a few words.
1. Don't Be Fooled By Changes Of Location

**Dylan**

_**1. Don't Be Fooled By Changes Of Location**_

'I don't know why you're worrying, Mom. I'll have everything under control here just the same way I did in Highland.'

Dylan thought to himself that Kris certainly had the conversation with their mother under control. At least that meant Dylan didn't have to interact with either of them.

'I just don't want you to think that I don't understand the problems of moving to a new town. Look at me, for example. I have to restart my business here, and it's not easy. So I know things might not be easy for … other people.'

'You mean, like Dylan? I've been watching his back for years, and it's got to be easier here where we're both starting at the same school at the same time.' With an easy stretch of his arm, Kris reached out and turned the car radio up. It was, of course, already tuned to a station of his choice.

Their mother, without seeming to realise what she was doing, reached out to turn the radio off again so she could continue her pep talk. 'It is the first day at a new school, though—isn't it … Dylan?'

As she was speaking, Dylan leaned forward from the back seat to turn the radio back on and crank up the volume.

'What was that, Mom? Did you say something?'

She automatically turned the radio off again. 'Yes, I was just saying … that … oh, by the way, please feel free to share those new snack treats around. That could be a good way to make new friends—and I'd love to hear what anybody has to say about them.'

_As if any high school student would want to be friends with me,_ Dylan thought. _Physically unimpressive both natively and in presentation; no talent for sport and no opinion of it; no compunction about demonstrating that I'm the smartest person in the room; fond of sarcastic wisecracks; contemptuous of the high-school popularity racket and indifferent at best to all group activity. But I'll be sure to bear your 'new snack treats' in mind if they put me in any classes with lab rats._

As the car pulled up, Dylan turned his attention back from his mother's scatter-brained analysis to his brother's announced plans to continue watching Dylan's back and, with those thoughts filling his mind, he propelled himself headlong from the car the exact instant it came to a stop in order to get ahead of the effect of Kris's inevitably stagier entrance.

The car had stopped at a turning circle in front of the high school, and gathered there was a small mixed-sex group of students. At the sight of Dylan one of the boys half-turned to another, pointed, and said, 'Look at the geek!'

'Yeah', the second boy replied. 'Geeky!'

The first to speak stepped forward and caught Dylan's eye. Then he stretched both arms out in front of him, completed the fending-off gesture by putting his upraised palms flat against Dylan's shoulders, and jostled him. 'What are you looking at, geek?' he said.

Dylan had come out of the car in too much of a rush to secure his footing and now he stumbled backward. For a moment he thought he might fall, but worse was what he heard Kris's voice saying behind him.

'Remember what Dad said and please just leave this to me, okay, Mom?' he heard, in a hasty undertone obviously pitched so that none of the other students would pick it up. Then Kris's voice came closer as he got out of the car and took up a stance.

'Leave the geek alone', he said with easy confidence.

Righting himself, Dylan saw that Kris and the other boy, the one who had jostled Dylan, had moved into position opposite each other, taking up mirrored stances for the face-off. He recognised the way they were already sizing each other up for dominance. Kris having uttered the first challenging words, it was the turn of the other to continue the ritual.

'Yeah? Who are you?'

'I'm the guy who's telling you to lay off the geek.' After a moment's pause for silent posturing Kris continued, 'In fact, while I'm here at this school everybody better learn to lay off the geek.'

The other boy looked Kris briefly up and down before reaching out one arm to the side to give Dylan another jostle. 'What if I'm a slow learner?' he said. 'Think you can teach me?'

'Any time you're ready', Kris replied, shifting into what Dylan knew was a fighting stance. 'I don't mind at all.'

The other boy responded by shaping up to Kris. 'Come on, then, let's see what you've got.'

The first tentative exploratory punches had been thrown and dodged and the fight was on the verge of becoming serious when a short solidly built adult in a suit came rushing up. To Dylan's eye he looked as if he might be Chinese, Korean, or Japanese.

'What's going on here?' he exclaimed. 'Break it up now!' As the two boys moved apart with an elaborately ambivalent air, the man continued, 'You know this sort of thing isn't good for the reputation of'—there was a fractional pause as he inhaled in order to give the next two words a breathy reverential emphasis —'Lawndale High.' He looked back and forth between the two combatants. 'Simon Griffith, I expected better of you.'

'We were just getting to know the new students, Mr Chung.'

The man turned to look at Kris and at Dylan, and Kris smoothly inserted an introduction that avoided publicly confirming the family relationship. 'I'm Kris Brocklethwaite', he said, 'and this is Dylan. We don't have any problem here—Mr Chung, is it?'

'Right! Good! Then let's see that it stays that way. Once I've welcomed all the new students to the school, as principal, we like to have little routine individual examinations by the school psychologist in any case. As I've met you now, why don't we start on that right away. We'll get somebody to show you to Mr Munson's office—'

Another bystanding student, a girl, spoke up at this point. 'I can take Kris there, Mr Chung.'

'Thank you, Kerry. And after Mr Munson has finished with you—'

Dylan saw Principal Chung looking towards him and saw where the conversation was headed. '—it'll be my turn', he said, with an inward sigh at the thought of the familiar experience of ceding precedence to his younger brother.

'Good! Now are any of the other new students here?' The principal looked round the group, which was already starting to break up as students drifted away from his presence. 'I'd better go and find them all.' He bustled off.

Simon Griffith had moved back a bit, together with the other boy he'd first spoken to about Dylan's geekiness. He looked across at Kris. 'Guess I'll see you around then—_Kuh-_riss', he said.

'Guess I'll see you around then, Simon.'

'Come on then, Stevie', Simon said, making a sideways motion with his head, and he and his offsider moved off.

'That was cool, the way you stood up to Simon Griffith', the girl Kerry said to Kris. Kris just shrugged and they fell into step, Kerry using one hand to indicate the way to the psychologist's office while the fingers of the other wiggled in a parting wave to another girl, presumably a friend of hers.

As they walked away, Kris said, 'Do you know anything about this test, Kerry? I didn't get told anything about it before.'

'Oh, everybody has to do it when they start here. Don't worry, you don't get graded. So—Kris Brocklethwaite? that's an interesting name …'

Dylan trailed along behind them unnoticed.

* * *

'I don't know why the principal wants you to test me. That whole business when we got here was nothing.'

'What whole business would that be, Kris?'

'Well, when that Simon Griffith saw my brother Dylan, he started picking on him for being a geek because, let's face it, Dylan is a geek. But even if he is a geek, I can't have people picking on my brother for being a geek, because it could make people start thinking that maybe there could be something geeky about me, which is ridiculous, but you can't let people start thinking ridiculous things about you, which is why the best thing is if people don't even know Dylan is my brother, but even then they still might think he has something to do with me, which is why I need to start at a new school by letting everybody know that so long as Kris Brocklethwaite is at this school nobody picks on the geek. So actually that whole thing with Simon was good, because I showed him who I am, and he showed me who he is, and now we know, and everybody saw, which means everybody knows, which is cool. Did you have Simon Griffith do this test or whatever when he started here?'

Mr Munson shook his head slightly. 'I can't discuss my examinations of other students with you. Those are confidential.'

'Well, you're going to have to test Dylan next. He's good at tests. That's not confidential. But he is a major geek. You'll see.'

* * *

'Now, Dean, your brother tells me there might be a problem with people picking on you.'

Dylan's face locked up completely. 'It's _Dylan_.'

'I'm sorry … Dylan. So, do you have a problem with people picking on you, Dean?'

Dylan responded without inflection. 'Kris thinks he has to protect me all the time. Doesn't that make it his problem?'

'Would you describe your brother as being a confident young man?'

'If you're going to be like everybody else and take all your cues from Kris, it doesn't matter what I say, does it?'

Mr Munson frowned. Dylan didn't bother.

* * *

Rod could have found artistic inspiration in the way Ms LeBeau jittered with not-really-suppressed frustration and rage, if only he hadn't drained that well dry a long time ago. Instead he concentrated on visual impressions of the new student, whom Ms LeBeau was introducing to the class as Dylan Brocklethwaite. This Dylan wore a figure-concealing outfit in muddy colours, almost aggressively non-descript, but something made Rod feel there was something worth finding out behind that if only he could get a closer look. In the meantime, he focussed his attention on the paper pellets he had prepared and lined up on his desk. He wasn't in the mood for interaction with Ms LeBeau, who had fortunately decided to see whether she could get any amusement out of the new student, asking Dylan a question about the doctrine of 'Manifest Destiny'.

'Manifest Destiny', Dylan said, 'was the doctrine that Americans are better than everybody else, and so they should take other people's land away from them to prove it.'

Rod thought to himself that that had been an artistically effective response, all the more so because of the people in the class it would be wasted on. There were some who probably would have been actively hostile to it, and to Dylan, if only they had been able to understand the statement. Rod thought it deserved some recognition. While LeBeau turned her attention to Karen Johnson and Kent Naylor, who could always be relied on to give wrong answers, Rod flicked a paper pellet neatly onto Dylan's desk. Dylan instantly turned his head: obviously he had realised immediately what had happened, and he also showed no difficulty in picking Rod as the source of the missile. He gazed back with the blankest expression Rod had ever seen, revealing nothing before he turned back to the front.

There was no doubt in Rod's mind that Dylan was somebody he had to draw.

Meanwhile Ms LeBeau had got stupid answers out of Karen and Kent, according to expectations, and was flying into another rage, which must also be according to some kind of expectations. Why she provoked herself like that when it always had the same effect on her, Rod didn't know. She demanded that somebody volunteer to answer her question, or else she'd give double homework and a quiz the next day.

Dylan raised an obviously reluctant hand, and then flinched when Ms LeBeau predictably shouted for him to stop showing off.

Rod had to draw him.

* * *

'They don't have boxing as a sport at the school. It's the usual problem with insurance', Kris said, and Dylan saw their father nod in acknowledgement as Kris went on. 'But there's a place for me right away to swim butterfly in a medley relay team with three other freshmen, Simon, Stevie, and Tim—'

'Simon and Stevie?' Dylan asked his brother, who glared at him for the interruption, but deigned to answer.

'That's right, the same ones you met this morning, but don't worry, you won't have any more trouble with them.'

'Oh dear', their mother said, putting her fork down. 'Trouble on your first day?'

'It's okay, Mom. I told you I'd fix it and I did. Don't you know by now you can trust me to keep an eye on Dylan?'

'I'm glad you boys are such good brothers to each other', their mother said. 'Now, how was the rest of your day, Dylan?'

Dylan picked up his glass of milk. 'Nothing I couldn't survive', he said. He took a drink.

'That's good—isn't it?'

'What your mother would really like to know, Dylan, is whether you'll be making a friend or two.'

Dylan gave both parents a blank stare. 'Me? Make a friend? At a school? Where Kris goes?'

Kris jumped into the pause Dylan had created in order to resume his earlier monologue. 'So, as I was saying before I was interrupted, I think these three guys from the swim team are going to make a good group to hang out with, as well as training together, of course. Simon boxes, too, and he's going to show me his gym and so on. And there are some cute girls at the school.' At this point he was cut off again, to his obvious irritation, by a phone call which his father answered.

'Hank Brocklethwaite speaking … yes, I am … does this have anything to do with the incident my sons have already told me about? … oh, I see … well, so long as it's clear that there's no case being made formally for the record … okay, great. Bye!'

Dylan had heard his father's lawyerly side coming out during the phone conversation, but just because he was defending his sons to outsiders Dylan didn't expect that he'd automatically take the same supportive attitude within the four walls of the family home. Whatever they'd called to talk to his parent about, something was up, and that meant probably something bad.

Kris seemed to have made a guess of much the same sort. 'Dad, Simon Griffith already told the principal that we were just getting to know each other. They don't have any witness evidence.'

'It wasn't about that', said their father. 'It was about Dylan.'

'Dylan?'

'Did you boys see a school psychologist after that incident?'

Dylan got in before Kris could say anything. 'That psychologist is a quack.'

'That psychologist says you have low self-esteem. The school wants to enrol you in a special self-esteem program and then re-test you in a few weeks time.'

Dylan looked steadily at his father. 'And you think that's a good idea', he said flatly.

'Maybe they'll fix you up', said Kris. 'Might be about time.'

Dylan pushed back his chair and stood up. 'My esteem for my self isn't as low as my esteem for anybody who thinks I should be in a special self-esteem program, present company not excepted.'

* * *

Rod wanted get a closer look at Dylan Brocklethwaite and made sure to get the seat directly behind him in self-esteem class. From his slight build and unusually fine silky hair—was it auburn or chestnut?—Dylan could easily have been mistaken for a girl. An image started to form in Rod's mind's eye, one in which Dylan's bulky coat and unisex boots were interpreted as a suit of armour, with his big-framed glasses as the helmet visor. Rod was only half-conscious of Ms FitzPatrick's voice gently droning its way through a memorised speech, until the flow was broken by Dylan, who raised a hand to ask the meaning of some of Ms FitzPatrick's psychobabbly mumbo-jumbo.

Judging by his performance in Ms LeBeau's class, Rod thought Dylan would have been smart enough to not to fall into that trap. As Ms FitzPatrick tried to wriggle out of the question, Rod thought about telling Dylan he should just relax and enjoy the nice woman's soothing voice, and he flicked a paper pellet onto Dylan's desk to attract his attention.

Dylan's head snapped round to look straight at Rod. His lips were pressed hard together. After one instant his head snapped back to the front.

Rod followed up the paper pellet with another. This time Dylan did not turn round, but pulled his seat forward a little and hunched forward over whatever he had on his desk. Rod had guessed from the way his shoulders and arms had been moving earlier that he might have been drawing something.

When the class ended Rod got out of his seat and casually ambled forward past Dylan's desk. He saw that Dylan had been doodling a sketch of Ms Fitzpatrick with a piece of stinky cheese for her head. Not bad.

* * *

Just as Dylan reached home, he saw his father pull up in front of the house and lean out of his car window.

'Come on, Dylan, let's go!'

'Dad? What are you doing here?'

'Hop in! No time to waste! I'll explain on the way!'

Reluctantly Dylan did as he was told, and his father pulled away from the kerb as soon as the car door was shut.

'Aren't you supposed to be still at work?'

'Not when it's time for you to have a bonding session with your Dad to build up your self-esteem. I want to take this business with your school as a wake-up call and strike while the iron is hot. We're going to spend the rest of the day together, doing something just for you. I've arranged for your first golf lesson.'

'Golf? _Golf? _Please tell me this is not a _Freaky Friday_ body-swap, Dad. I'm not Kris, I'm your _other _son. You do remember you have another son, right?'

'Dylan, you and your brother are two unique individuals, each with your own special style, and I appreciate both of you for that. Kris is a swimmer and a boxer, and that's good for him. You're a different person. I think you're really going to enjoy golf, and I know you'll find it's a tremendous advantage when you get out into the working world.'

Dylan looked out the window, thinking about how his father was probably feeling about having the chance to get out on the golf course, and about how he himself couldn't jump out of the moving car. 'So you think it could help me unlock my potential?'

'I hope so, Dylan.'

'And realise my actuality?'

'What does that mean?'

'I don't know. It's something my self-esteem class teacher said.'

* * *

The boy had striking looks, although not in the unsubtle way of Kent Naylor—he had more sense of style, too. Yet Rod couldn't remember seeing him around school before: he was most probably new, maybe a freshman, although he was big enough to be older. He was leaning against a bank of lockers as if he owned not only that particular bank but a whole chain in all the best locations. The girl was clutching her books in front of her and looking up at him with an expression which to Rod's eye said, 'Take me, I'm yours!' Judging by the boy's attitude, he was reading it the same way, but he was taking his time to size up the offer. Meanwhile the girl was asking him what he liked to do after school.

'Well, there's training, of course. It's a responsibility. Not just because of being on a swim team for the school, but a responsibility to yourself and to everybody else to keep in the best condition. But I'm not obsessed with sports, the way some guys are. I think it's important to have well-rounded interests, especially now that we're in high school and growing up into maturity. There's definitely a place in life for having fun, but I prefer hanging out with people who have just a little bit more of an adult attitude, not just fooling around like middle-schoolers.'

Rod could see that the boy, for all his careless pose, was following the girl's reactions closely and tailoring his approach to match. She didn't have a prayer.

Just at that moment he caught sight of Dylan Brocklethwaite again, hurrying along the same corridor, hunched forward and head down—except that for a moment Rod was sure that Dylan's gaze was drilling into the same couple he'd been eavesdropping on. Rod switched his own gaze from them to Dylan just as the girl was asking the boy whether he had any brothers or sisters. The boy answered that he was an only child. Rod was sure Dylan had heard: he had a face that didn't give much away, but Rod caught one glimpse of what had to be a grimace there. It wasn't just that he shared Rod's dislike for the boy, his reaction had something more personal in it.

* * *

Ms FitzPatrick asked her fourth stupid question of that afternoon's self-esteem class, and one of the students—the girl who always wore a T-shirt with a picture of a cartoon character—gave a stupid answer which, to Ms FitzPatrick's idiot delight, correctly defined 'ourselves' as 'us'. This distraction caught Dylan's attention just long enough for Rod to lean across and snatch the drawing Dylan had been working on, a doodled image of Ms FitzPatrick with a head made of ice-cream. Rod added his own contribution, the image of a rabid wolf attacking the ice-cream, and then leaned over to Dylan's desk again to return it. Dylan looked straight at him, but said nothing until Ms FitzPatrick singled him out to answer another question, about a daydream he'd like to see come true.

'It's been a while since we've had a family outing', said Dylan.

'Those can be fun', Ms FitzPatrick said.

'If I put my mind to it, I should be able to come up with an idea they'll all hate', Dylan went on.

Rod liked the way Ms FitzPatrick couldn't handle that. Too bad the class ended.

* * *

The skinny boy with the earrings and the pellet-flicking habit finally moved in on Dylan as they walked away from self-esteem class. 'That was a good one', he said.

Dylan looked at him and wondered about how a confrontation between Kris and this unusual character might turn out. Not that Dylan would be telling Kris anything about him, or anything else. 'What of it?' he said, and shrugged.

Paper-Pellet Boy shrugged back and said, 'You really don't like self-esteem class, do you?'

'I guess it gives me an opportunity to enlarge my collection of paper pellets. Were you wanting them back?'

The other boy held up a hand, palm facing out, and waggled it. 'No, they're a gift. You know, if you want to get out of self-esteem class early, I can give you all the answers to the release test. I've done the whole program six times.'

Dylan found the idea of doing the whole program even once so depressing that he couldn't imagine why anybody would voluntarily undergo it six times. But he didn't care. 'You can give me the answers? What do you want?'

'I just enjoy the opportunity to thumb my nose at the system, by proxy. Although … there is one thing I was puzzled about that you might be able to clear up.'

'Okay. Give me those test answers and I'll do my best.'

Dylan waited while the other boy's notebook was produced and the relevant pages torn out of it and handed to him. He ran an eye over them and said, 'Nothing surprising there. Go on with your question.'

'I happened to see you in the corridor. You noticed a couple against the lockers talking, you were staring at them, and I know I saw you pulling a face about something. What's the story?'

'You saw that? That story is an old story. Did you hear the boy saying he was an only child?'

A nod.

'That's my younger brother Kris.'

'Your brother? Saying he was an only child? Ouch.'

'I think he actually half-believes that if he only says it often enough he can make it true.' Dylan shook his head. 'Me, I only wish.' He turned to go.

'Good luck with those test answers then.'

Dylan turned back again. 'One other thing, if you don't mind. Can you tell me whether there's a Pizza Forest anywhere around these parts?'

'You mean that place where they have people dressed up in animal costumes singing to you while you eat? Sure, there's one not far away. Why?'

'Because _that _is a thing that will really make my family suffer.'

* * *

He looked around at his parents and his brother. At least this supposed need to do something about his self-esteem had given him the leverage to inflict this on them.

The singers were exhorting them all to join in. His family looked sick.

'Row, row, row your boat …' he began.

* * *

Rod sat on his bed watching a man on his favourite television show, _Sick, Sad World_, interviewing a woman about how she had managed to have affairs with three members of the royal family despite her multiple disabilities. Rod shook his head. The royal family? She needed to be blind to do that. The interviewer was missing the point.

Rod thought it would have been nice to be able to explain this to somebody.

* * *

Dylan sat on his bed watching a man on his favourite television show, _Sick, Sad World_, presenting a story about UFO conventions. The interviewee was a halfwitted girl called Patty, with sadly mismatched features on her unfortunately spotted face (and the worst haircut Dylan had ever seen), who was telling a typically lame alien abduction story.

Dylan reflected on how the way the presenter had opened the story had involved a false contrast, between 'the domain of kooks' and 'big business'. It would have been nice to be able to explain this to somebody.

You couldn't have everything. In fact, he was lucky to have _anything_. At least next time the self-esteem class met he should be able to pass the test and get released. That was the word all right, 'released'.

* * *

Having to stand up in front of a school assembly just because that idiot teacher Ms FitzPatrick thought there was something special about somebody passing that so-called self-esteem test early—that wasn't what Dylan would call a 'release'. There was only a moment's delay while Ms FitzPatrick humiliated herself first, trying to make some sort of point about self-esteem by a lame analogy that rightly met with the audience's scorn. In a moment she'd hand him that stupid certificate and then he'd be exposed out there, expected to address the school from the podium as if there were some point in his saying something to them. Did Ms FitzPatrick think he'd learned something from her class? Did she think there was any point in his trying to pass it on? Did she think it was something that people could be taught?

As he stepped up to the podium with his certificate in hand, there was a scattering of applause—and Paper-Pellet Boy, who was sitting in the centre of the front row, began a fusillade of ear-splitting whistles and thunderous drumming of his feet, embarrassing the rest of the audience almost as much as he embarrassed Dylan, so that they all fell silent. Desperately, Dylan looked around the hall in every other direction—and saw one person who definitely couldn't be taught anything about self-esteem.

* * *

Kris was sitting between Kerry and her best friend, both of whom were trying to show off for him. That wouldn't do his status any harm: they were both pretty enough, although neither of them was a cheerleader.

What was really on his mind was that his brother was the centre of attention. It was a good thing that didn't happen often. He didn't want to encourage it. While Dylan was droning on about self-esteem, or whatever, Kerry and her friend agreed loudly with each other that he was a loser who should stop talking, although it was still better than being in algebra class. When Kris's response seemed too low-key to them, they repeated themselves, playing up to him. He tried to give them just enough reaction to reassure them of his interest without making any more of this than necessary. The sooner his brother's moment in the spotlight was over, the better.

He wasn't totally sure what he was worrying about until Dylan showed him by naming him, Kris Brocklethwaite, as the biggest example of self-esteem he knew. Of course, that was true. The bad part was that Dylan said, very loudly, for everybody to hear, that they were brothers.

'Your brother's a geek?' said Kerry.

'You're not a geek as well?' said her friend.

* * *

Dylan had no intention of telling his parents about the school assembly, but Kris was so angry about the public humiliation that he poured out the whole story. Since their parents were deliberately blind and deaf to the nature of the brothers' relationship, they remained oblivious to the reasons for Kris's reaction, and of course it wasn't in Kris's power to explain to them. Dylan's parents thought it was generous of him to have thanked his brother publicly. They also thought 'graduating' early from the self-esteem program was a serious achievement, or at least that's what they told him, as if it was what he wanted to hear.

What it did do was give him another idea. He'd used the precariousness of his self-esteem for leverage once already, so he might as well try to use the same manoeuvre just one more time, before the whole subject faded into the distance. His parents, he hoped, wouldn't want to put his 'achievement' at risk by refusing his request for a celebratory family outing.

He just managed to swing it.

* * *

Dylan suggested a group photo with the giant cardboard alien.

Kris knew it was parents' job to go along with something like this for their kids' sake, whether they liked it or not. He didn't see why they'd forced him to come along. It was totally unfair. He told them he'd just wait while they got the photograph.

As they walked away, a weird girl came up to him—a hideously unfashionable girl, with a spotty face, and the worst haircut Kris had ever seen.

'Hi!' she said. 'I'm Patty! Isn't it cool here?'

Kris ran after his family, calling them to wait for him.


	2. Acceptances And Refusals

**Dylan**

_**2. Acceptances And Refusals**_

'You don't have to actually walk with me, Dylan. Actually, you should get a bit further ahead. That way, I can still keep an eye on you, but we're not being seen actually together.'

'I don't want to be together with you, Kris. Don't you get that yet? Origin point, home. Same. Destination point, school. Same. Shortest route? Same. If you can't follow that, I don't know how you hope to pass mathematics.'

Before Kris could come up with a response to that—probably about how he didn't care about mathematics anyway—Dylan accelerated in what he knew was almost certainly a vain attempt to elude his younger brother. For one halcyon moment he thought that he was about to beat the odds, as three cheerleaders (colour-coded by hair, like something in a cartoon: black, blonde, and reddish) came running up to Kris and he slowed to let them surround him. But Kris was just too good at what he did. Without losing touch with his adoring triple escort (Dylan wasn't sure of their individual names, although he had an idea all three started with 'A'), he accelerated just enough to keep Dylan in view.

Dylan sighed.

* * *

Kris came up to a small group of girls discussing the party that Kent Naylor was throwing because his parents were going to be out of town. Karen Johnson, Kent's girlfriend, was enthusing about it to an audience of cheerleaders, including the captain of the cheerleading squad, Michelle 'Van' Vandyke.

Karen was the kind of girl who might also have been expected to be a cheerleader, but at Lawndale High she was quarterback of the school football team. She might know nothing about anything else, but on the football field she was a genius. Kris knew some people might have been bothered by a female quarterback, but for him the important point was that it meant no male quarterback: a male quarterback could have been a serious rival.

Van, on the other hand, found Karen a problem, not because she was bothered by the idea of a female quarterback, but because, as cheer captain, she felt a responsibility to make sure that Karen didn't get herself into too much trouble by being too unbelievably stupid too often, something it was difficult for the other football players to do on account of their being male and Karen's being female. Van didn't get gratitude for this. She just had to put up with Karen's idea of friendship, which included calling her 'Big Vee', no matter how many times Van asked her not to.

When Kris came up, Karen asked whether he was coming to the party.

'Thanks for the invitation, Karen! Hey, are you girls all coming, Annie, Allie, Addie?'

'It's _Abbie_.'

'Of course it is! That's what I said! It would be ungentlemanly of me of to forget you, my dear Abbie. It would be ungentlemanly of me to forget any one of you, and I hope people will say that Kris Brocklethwaite is _always_ the gentleman. I'm really looking forward to being at the party with all of you!'

* * *

Dylan had Kent Naylor figured out. He wasn't the sort to pick on somebody just to establish status. He set a lot of store by his activities—marching band and Junior ROTC—and if Dylan's attitude to those came to his attention, he'd let Dylan know about it, quite possibly with pain. That prospect wouldn't induce Dylan to hold back, of course—he'd let the chips fall where they might. But Kent generally regarded Dylan as being so little worthy of his attention that in normal circumstances he was unlikely to notice Dylan's attitude to marching band or Junior ROTC or just about any other subject. For Dylan's part he was happy enough not to come to Kent's notice, not because he'd allow himself to be frightened but just because Kent was a dimwit, and a relentlessly cheerful dimwit at that. Besides, if Dylan did start attracting attention from Kent, there was the depressing prospect of Kris intervening to control the situation.

But Dylan had come to Kent's attention in Mr Leroy's art class. Unfortunately, they were seated at the same art table to work on an exercise in perspective, an exercise which presented no intellectual challenge to Dylan, but which had Kent struggling pathetically. Despite plainly regarding being a 'brain' as a moral shortcoming (not that he'd have the expressive power to articulate it like that), Kent somehow managed (no doubt stupidity helped) to reconcile that attitude with a recognition that being smart did sometimes come in useful. So he'd appealed to Dylan for assistance with the exercise, and Dylan had somehow let himself be tempted into providing it. Slightly to his own surprise, he had succeeded in giving Kent a less tenuous conceptual grip by using examples inspired by marching band and ROTC drill.

The unfortunate part about this was that it made Kent grateful to Dylan, even if the gratitude was sure to be ephemeral. When they went from art class into lunch period, he followed Dylan into the cafeteria. It emerged that as well as being grateful he was uncomfortable at the idea of owing a debt to Dylan, and wanted to cancel it as soon as possible.

'You want to do something for me? How about if you don't ask me for help again in art, or speak to me about anything else at all, or even notice that I exist? Ever?'

'Hey, is that some kind of geek-joke? You know I'm not a geek, so I don't understand geek things.' Kent's eyes widened and his expression became more positive. 'Say, why don't you come to my party on Saturday? Karen's going to want guys from the football team there, so the guys from the marching band are going to want some less popular types as well to kind of even things up.'

Karen Johnson, Kent's girlfriend, was the other thing, according to Dylan's reckoning, that Kent might take issue with another boy about, if he thought there was any chance that other boy was in any way trying to steal a march on him, Kent, with Karen. Dylan had, if possible, even less interest in Karen than in Kent, but among the things the two of them shared were attitudes on the subjects of fidelity and intimate relationships in general which involved a lot of loose and elastic interpretations. And as well as matters of interpretation, there were matters of misinterpretation, a natural aptitude for which was another of the things Kent and Karen shared. If Dylan turned up at Kent's party with Karen there—but Dylan had no need whatsoever for an additional reason to avoid Kent's party.

'Kent, I feel compelled to tell you that I'm grateful for what you've just said. I see a whole new world of life possibilities opening up for me in the role of a social makeweight. And you're the one who's shown this to me. It was you, Kent Naylor, all you. You were the one who knew what to say to me.'

'Oh it was nothing', Kent said, dipping his head at a self-deprecating angle. Then he looked puzzled for just a moment, and put one forefinger over his lips as if he were briefly pondering Dylan's actual words. 'I think.'

Dylan didn't care. The important point was that he had neither actually accepted Kent's invitation nor specifically declined it, and Kent hadn't noticed.

* * *

At home, Dylan chanced on Kris looking at clothes in front of an arrangement of three mirrors.

'Whichever direction I face, I'm confronted by my brother. Who told you about my nightmares?'

'I wouldn't expect you to understand. Boys as well as girls have to take some care in picking outfits for a party. At least, if they want to get what they're looking for, which I guess you don't.'

'If this is Kent Naylor's party you're talking about, what makes you think there'd be any point in my looking there for anything I might want?'

'Hey, how do you know about Kent Naylor's party?'

'I got an invitation to it today—of a sort.'

'Well, I hope you're not planning on showing up. It'll spoil half my fun if I have to keep an eye out for you.'

For a moment Dylan was almost prepared to think of that as an incentive, but the reward of spoiling fun for Kris wasn't worth the cost of having Kris keeping an eye out for him. He didn't want to relieve Kris's apprehensions, so he just left without a word.

* * *

Rod waited quietly in the shadow of the wall until a big SUV pulled up at the gatehouse. Then he scooted forward, crouching down at the side of the vehicle, below window height, so that he couldn't be seen from the other side. He heard, faintly, the voice of the security guard talking at the window with the driver. A moment later he was free and clear, past the gate without the security guard noticing him. It wasn't hard to find the Naylors' place with all the cars heading towards it and parked in front of it.

When Kent opened the door Rod grabbed him by the hand and started pumping it up and down, saying, 'Kent! So great to see you here! It's so good you could make it to the party!'

'But … I'm the host?'

'That's what makes it so great that you could be here! I mean, you live here! Everybody else, all the guests, only have to get past that stupid security guard once! But you—she sees you every single day and you still have to find some way to persuade her to let you in despite all that! Plus, everybody else has to come to the party to see the house! All of them'—Rod gestured expansively with his free arm to encompass the house full of guests—'you know, they're all saying to themselves, hey, you know what, if I turn up to the party I'll get a chance to check out the Naylor place, see what it's like. But not you! You live here, you can check the place out every day if for some reason you feel like that's worth doing. You didn't have to show up to the party. But you said to yourself, no, there's such a thing as society, I'm part of it, I have to do my bit to keep all these people linked together no matter what. That's just the kind of guy you are, right? And what kind of guy am I? You've got all these guests here to pay attention to and I'm just interfering, taking up your time. Don't worry about me, I'm sure I can find something here to occupy idle hands. Say, isn't that Kris Brocklethwaite over there? I'll leave you to go on being the great host to everybody I'm sure you are, see you later!' Rod dropped Kent's hand and ducked past him to disappear into the throng. When he risked a glance over his shoulder to check, Kent was talking with Joey Lyndon and Michelle Vandyke. They'd probably keep him occupied for a couple of minutes. Rod kept moving away from them, scanning around for subjects to sketch, which had been one of his motives for coming to the party anyway.

He passed near Simon Griffith standing in the middle of the room talking with a couple of other jocks from the swim team, one who looked East Asian and another a tall blond with a buzz-cut. They were scanning the room, too, and also pointing. Rod faded back against the wall of the room just behind their line of sight.

'Okay, I'll give her seven and a half out of ten, but that's the limit', the tall blond was saying. 'But look at her over there! Definitely at least a nine, especially if she keeps it up with that wiggle.'

As the three of them continued rating all the female 'talent' in the room, Rod quickly sketched them as the judges in a stand at an agricultural show, with the livestock paraded in front of them all having female human heads, also drawn from guests at the party.

'Yeah, Karen Johnson has to be a ten', the tall blond was saying. 'Or, you know, nine and a half if you're not into that female quarterback thing.'

Simon Griffith pointed. 'Did you get a look at that one over there?'

'Oh, no … she'd need plastic surgery just to get a positive score. Does she think that's some kind of new look? How did she even get invited?'

'She shouldn't be wearing those clothes and that make-up, she should just have a sack over her.'

'I know', said the Asian boy. 'Scary.'

Apparently all three of them were so disgusted that they stopped what they were doing and moved off, to get a drink or a snack or to dance or something. Rod didn't care. He'd finished his sketch and now he shifted around to get a good look at Kris Brocklethwaite. He was expertly manipulating the three cheerleaders who were dancing attendance on him, keeping the attention of all of them without committing himself to any one. Rod saw some possibilities in their contrasting colouring. He started a new sketch, with Kris in a reclining chair with his three handmaidens ministering to him as hairstylist, manicurist, and pedicurist.

As he finished that one he sensed he was being watched. He looked round and confirmed that two girls across the room were drawing each other's attention to him. The one in the green top didn't look too bad, if you let yourself get past the 'head too big for her body' effect. He made his way over to them and said hello. They nudged each other, grinning slyly and then covering their faces with their hands.

'Are you doing portraits?' one of them said, the one with the sharper features.

'Different sketches', he said. 'There are some interesting features in this house. I was hoping when I came that I'd find some ideas for pictures worth drawing.'

The big-headed one in the green top twirled some hair around a finger and said, 'Do you think one of us might be worth drawing, maybe?'

Rod figured she might be impressed if he struck an artist's pose. He held up his left hand with his pencil gripped in it, thumb pointing upwards, and put it between his face and hers as he squinted out of one eye, with the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. 'It's important to find the right context for a drawing', he said. 'You can't rush art.'

'What about the laundry room?' the first girl said. She nudged her friend again and they both giggled.

Rod couldn't see the joke. 'The laundry room?'

'It's the make-out room', said the big-headed girl, and both of them giggled again.

* * *

A car pulled up at the Crewe Neck gatehouse and the driver rolled the window down. 'Excuse me', she said to the security guard.

'Well, what is it? Go ahead.'

'My friend here was supposed to be going to a party tonight with her boyfriend, at the Naylor place? But we think he could be two-timing her. You know what high-school boys can be like, don't you, ma'am?'

The security guard shrugged and pushed back her cap. 'I can let her in if her name's on the list for the party.' She picked up her clipboard.

The girl looked at her passenger and then back at the security guard.

'Her name's … Brittany. But—her boyfriend might have left her name out or changed it just to stop her from getting in.'

'Brittany, huh?' The security guard looked down at her clipboard.

'Uh … yes, ma'am', said the passenger in a low voice.

'Would that be Brittany Earl, Brittany Lodge, Brittany Fairbairn, or Brittany Booth-Dawe?'

The two girls looked at each other again. 'Brittany Booth-Dawe?'

The security guard took off her cap. 'I'm afraid that name's checked off. Brittany Booth-Dawe's already gone in to the party.'

'But don't you see! That's her boyfriend! He's brought some other girl in here and used her name! Whoever he took in, her name wasn't Brittany Booth-Dawe!'

The security guard drummed her fingers on her clipboard. 'Okay', she said, 'I'm going up to this party with you and we're going to sort this out, see what's really going on.'

* * *

Rod was mightily relieved when somebody started banging at the door of the make-out room. The girl with the big head would just not stop giggling! When he heard a voice outside saying that somebody else wanted to have a turn, he used the excuse to extract himself. The girl at once ran off to find her friend, still giggling.

A moment later, another girl came up to Rod, a short stumpy girl whose unfavourable natural colouring included carrot-red hair and unfortunate freckles, while her heavy make-up and her gaudy earrings did nothing to improve things. The skimpy outfit she wore was obviously intended to display as much as possible (within the limits of the law) of her major assets, which resembled two large mounds of dough.

'Well, hello there', she said breathily. 'Were you having fun in the makeout room? My name's U‑P, by the way.'

'U‑P? As in "up"?'

'My parents named me Ursula Priscilla Chalk, but I always ask my _friends_'—the word dribbled out of her mouth—'to call me U‑P, and I just know we're going to be friends.' She fluttered her eyelashes at him. 'Still, if you want to think of it as "up", there's nothing wrong with getting _up_, is there?' She put a hand on his arm.

Before Rod could deal with the situation, another girl hurled herself across the room at the redhead, screaming, 'Upchuck, you slut!' Rod backed away from the developing catfight as quickly as possible, while most of the rest of the party zoomed in on it. He noticed the security guard from the gate among the others, and decided he'd had enough fun for one night. He pulled his sketchbook safely to him and made for the door.

As he went down the drive, he saw a woman wrapped up in a dressing-gown banging at the gatehouse. 'Can't you hear that ruckus? Aren't you going to do something about it? I warn you, if I have to call the police you're not going to be happy about it!' When there was no response, she stormed off.

Rod came up to the gatehouse and saw that the security guard had left behind her cap, clipboard, and nightstick. He also noticed a bunch of cars driving up as if they were expecting to get in. He couldn't resist. He put on the cap, picked up the other things, and went to the window of the first car to pull up at the gate.

'Special security precautions this evening, sir', he said when the driver lowered the window.

'You're not old enough for this work', the driver huffed.

'Old enough for _21 Jump Street_, sir. That's not your own hair, is it, sir.' He made an illegible note on the clipboard. He didn't dare try actually stopping the car from coming in, but once he'd let it through he risked pulling a similar routine on the next driver.

'Can you tell me the principal artistic trends associated with the name of Picasso, ma'am?'

'Um … wasn't he a Cubist?'

'Good enough, ma'am.' He waved her through. When he stopped the next car he showed the driver one of the drawings from his own sketchbook and asked her to describe the style.

'It looks like Surrealism to me.'

He waved her through and then looked out into the street. Another car was on its way—a police car. Quickly and quietly he put the cap, clipboard, and nightstick back where he'd found them and darted out and away before the cops made their appearance. With his sketchbook under one arm he stuck his hands in his pockets and walked home whistling.


	3. Warning Shots Across The Bow

**Dylan**

_**3. Warning Shots Across The Bow**_

There was a slight bump as the car went over something on the road.

'I wish you'd be a little more careful', Dylan's mother said. 'Or let me drive for a while.'

'We want to get to Stuart and Donna's on time. Besides, it was already dead, so no real harm done.'

'There's nothing wrong with my driving', said Dylan's mother, who sincerely believed it, although Dylan knew better. 'I could get us there, and without running over animals on the road.'

'I know!' said Dylan's father. 'Why don't you sing us a song to pass the time?'

'That's a good idea.' Dylan's mother looked over the seat back at her two sons. 'Say, why don't I choose something we all know and you two can join in! How about "Workin' On A Building"? That's easy to remember.'

Dylan hurried to change the subject. 'What are we supposed to do while you're talking with your friends, anyway? Play with the three-year-old?'

'Yeah', said Kris. 'Dylan's right—for once.'

'It won't hurt you to spend a little time with Raymond', their mother said. 'Being three is something we all have to go through. It wouldn't do you any harm to remember that.'

'But not having to remember being three is one of the few "Get Out Of Jail Free" cards that life hands us', Dylan said. 'And in my case one of the few advantages of your having Kris so soon after me is that I don't have to remember much of his toddlerhood, either. I've dodged that bullet twice already. It'd just be foolhardy to break from cover a third time.'

* * *

The world confirmed its continuing capacity to surprise Dylan with fresh horrors when the visit to the Brocklethwaites' friends produced a consequence so hideous that even he could never have imagined such a turn of events. A three-year-old producing his most recently acquired book and asking somebody to read to him—that was totally predictable. The unpredictable part was that the book turned out to be a study guide for college entry exams, specifically produced for the pre-school set. Stuart, Raymond's father, had explained that, as conscientious parents, they couldn't start thinking too early about getting into a good college, with the level of competition getting higher and higher. Once the conversation had got that far, it was inevitable that the next topic would be what the Brocklethwaites (whose children were, after all, actually in high school) were doing. The effects of that jab to the parental reflexes were still working their way through Hank Brocklethwaite's system on the car trip back. Over his sons' objections he insisted that they both take a college prep course which was being offered through the school. He wouldn't listen to reason, when Dylan tried to argue with him, or to unreason, when Kris tried that.

Dylan took what comfort he could from Kris's discomfort. 'This could be an opportunity for us to do something together, as brothers', he said, rubbing salt in the wound.

* * *

Dylan figured that if the college prep course had been any good it would have attracted more attention from students in the higher grades; recognising by sight a lot of the participants as being from his own grade confirmed his low expectations. Paper-Pellet Boy (Dylan was just as happy not to know his name) was there, but grumbling about it to Joey Lyndon; maybe he'd also been forced into it by his parents, or maybe he just couldn't think of a better place to go in search of opportunities to make mischief. Joey Lyndon, on the other hand, was of all the people there the one most likely to be taking it seriously, although Michelle Vandyke probably was too. As for Karen Johnson, who was sitting next to Dylan, she was stupid enough to have come without any rational explanation, and the same was probably true for Kent Naylor, and maybe a fair few more of the attendees. As the instructor droned on, Dylan was far from the only one to zone out.

Everybody had to pay more attention again when the instructor handed round a worksheet for them all to complete, allegedly to help them focus on what they wanted to achieve by going to college. For Karen Johnson it was too hard even to answer a question about how she really saw herself, and she leaned towards Dylan and hissed to attract his attention so that she could ask him for help.

'Put down "concubine" ', he said.

She had to ask him how to spell it, but she was impressed. 'That sounds really important.' Her eyes seemed to glaze a little. Dylan noticed that something similar was happening to a lot of the attendees. Maybe all the instructor's blather about aspirations was driving them to daydream.

* * *

In Karen's daydream, she'd just run off the field after her latest triumph as quarterback in another huge victory for the college's football team. She was exchanging high-fives with the team's other star, the ruggedly handsome (and fabulously rich) middle linebacker.

'Still the best team-up ever!' he said.

'You ready to team up again afterwards for our little _private _celebration?'

He just winked in reply. 'You know, I still can't get over how I was wasting my time with cheerleaders in high school. I wish you'd been on the team then. We would have ruled!'

'Hey, back in high school I was dating some guy from the marching band! Can you believe that?'

* * *

In Kent's daydream, he was sitting across from a gorgeous woman looking almost as sharp in her business clothes as he did in his dress uniform.

'Of course the President understands that graduating from the academy and winning your commission comes first', she said, 'but he was so impressed by your performance as bandleader that he hopes you'll consider accepting appointment to this special detail after that.' She reached over and put her hand on his wrist. 'I hope so too. It'll mean working _very closely _with me.'

* * *

In Rod's daydream, he was standing in a big New York loft explaining to a fancy art critic how he'd managed to afford the space by using his parents' college fund. She was almost as impressed by the ingenuity of the scheme as she was by his art.

* * *

In Kris's daydream he walked up to the door of a house and knocked. It was answered by a beautiful woman, a tiny wasp-waisted doll dressed in an exotic Asian costume: she looked as if she might be Thai or Balinese. At the sight of him she smiled demurely and then looked down at the ground.

'Please forgive me if I'm intruding', he said, 'but the student housing office sent me here.'

The woman turned her head gracefully and softly called out, 'Ingrid?' A moment later a second beautiful woman appeared, a statuesque and athletic blonde just one finger's breadth taller than Kris himself. 'This is international student accommodation', she said to Kris pleasantly, with a hint of a Scandinavian accent.

'Oh, what a pity!' he said. 'There must have been some mistake. I'm terribly sorry.'

'Wait a moment!' came a voice from inside, and the two beauties at the door were joined by a third, a full-figured West Indian exactly halfway between them in height. 'It isn't your fault, after all. And even if it is a mistake'—she exchanged looks with her roommates—'why shouldn't we take advantage of it?'

'Yes', said the one called Ingrid, 'we are all three agreed that we wish to get to know Americans _much _better—_especially _American men.'

All three eagerly nodded at each other and then stepped back to invite Kris in.

* * *

The expressions Dylan saw on some of the faces around him made him think that maybe daydreaming a little would be as good a way to make the time go past as any.

He imagined himself strolling across a college campus with a professor who'd already taken a shine to him after just one week as a freshman. She was suggesting that he take up a position in the graduate school, not as a student, but teaching, on the university's Paris campus. Of course an offer like that he had no choice but to accept.

'Thank you!' the professor said. 'That'll make your dorm room available for my affair with your brother!'

'Of course! Even in my daydreams I can't escape from Kris ruining everything! And everybody else is still a jerk!'

* * *

Over dinner Dylan's parents wanted to hear all about it.

'Well', Dylan said, 'I guess your money may not have been totally wasted. Kris may have lined up an opportunity to nail the instructor.'

'Dylan!' his mother said. 'How can you talk that way! And about your own brother!'

'Because I haven't deliberately decided to stop myself from seeing what he's like? Okay, maybe I overstated it a little. Maybe he just wants the opportunity to demonstrate something to himself by proving that he could nail her if he wanted to.'

Kris spoke up before either of his parents could rebuke Dylan further. 'I thought this might be a good chance to find out more about scholarship opportunities. I am a star athlete, but there aren't as many scholarships in swimming as there are in football or basketball. I knew I needed to get her to give me some of her own time to discuss it. It's not my fault if Dylan doesn't understand how people will help you out if only you can be bothered to learn how to get them to like you. Anyway', he went on, obviously (to Dylan) changing the subject, 'Dylan hasn't told you about the best part of all, which is where we have to choose a college and make a trip to visit it.'

The reason Dylan hadn't mentioned this was that he foresaw nothing good from keeping his parents informed, and his forebodings were confirmed by the eagerness with which his parents appropriated the suggestion and converted it into a plan for the whole family to make a trip to the joint parental _alma mater_, Middleton College, overriding the protestations from Kris, which culminated in a disgusted departure from the room. Dylan coped better. After all, he never had expectations of anything turning out well.

* * *

Dylan's mother responded to her return to Middleton with a nostalgic enthusiasm which Dylan found creepy. Fortunately all the Brocklethwaites got from their designated tour guide, who introduced himself as Harvey, was unemotional rote recital of the sights and history of Middleton—that is, until he was interrupted by a fusillade of giggling echoing above their heads.

Dylan's father pointed to the window from which the sound was coming. 'Jacquie, honey', he said, 'isn't that your old dorm room? You know, I never did get to go up there.'

He winked suggestively at his wife, but she didn't notice … or did she?

'That wasn't because of me, Hank, it was because of my roommates. Say, if you still want to, we have enough time to check it out before our appointment at the Bursar's office.'

Dylan declined his parents' offer to accompany them up to the room. He watched them head away together thinking, _Now, if only there was some way I could get rid of Kris, too …_

* * *

When Hank and Jacquie got up to the dorm room, the girls there showed no interest at all.

'Easier for you to get in here now than it was back in our day, eh, Hank?'

'You girls do seem pretty laid back.' Hank strolled into and then across the room, but the occupants just kept listening to their music—all except one, sitting at her computer. 'I see you're putting in some study, though. What's the assignment?'

'I'm writing to a death-row inmate.'

'Oh, you're working on one of those projects where they try to find new evidence to exonerate convicts. I'm a lawyer myself, you know.'

'This isn't really a legal project. We're thinking of getting engaged.'

'You know', Jacquie said, 'I think maybe it's time for us to head over to our appointment.'

* * *

Harvey had got as far as pointing out an old bell tower that made Dylan think of Charles Whitman, when Kris asked to be shown where the sororities were.

'Don't you mean the fraternities?'

'Oh no', Dylan said, 'my brother knows exactly what he's looking for.'

The guide shrugged and showed them the way.

Kris got them to slow down as they passed the third sorority house, where several students were sitting out front talking, and then motioned Dylan and Harvey to back away from him a little. Dylan could tell from experience that his brother was working on some plan to attract female attention, but Kris had barely had time to start positioning himself for whatever manoeuvre he had in mind when a large drunken fraternity lout appeared from somewhere and made the mistake of trying to push him around.

'Hey, whadda y'think y'doin', punk? No pledges rounda s'rority houses, _okay_? Better learna keep y'nose clean, _okay_?'

'Is that your business?' Kris replied.

Harvey started to say, 'Hey', and took half a step forward, but Dylan motioned him back again.

'Don't worry about Kris. He can take care of this. Believe me, I've seen it before.'

Meanwhile, the drunken frat boy was leaning forward aggressively and telling Kris, 'I'm makin' it m'bznz.' He put a hand on Kris's shoulder and tried to push him backwards, but Kris just rolled with it and then slipped it and ducked under to get inside, bringing his fists up as he did so.

'You better walk away', Kris said. 'One chance.'

His opponent roared, 'Ha', and started to swing a wild punch, but Kris deftly got in first with a one-two combination to the gut. The drunk staggered back, tripped, and fell hard, then toppled over and suddenly vomited.

Three of the girls from the sorority had approached during the ruckus, and now one of them asked Kris, 'Are you all right?'

'It's really nothing. I'm sorry you've got to have this mess out here in front of your place, though.' He gestured. 'I was just thinking how nice your sorority house looked.'

'It's nice on the inside, too. Do you want to come and take a look while you rest and get your breath back?'

Dylan turned to Harvey. 'Can we please get away from this?'

'Fine by me. I hate all this Greek stuff anyway. What would you like to see next?'

'It wasn't my idea to come here in the first place. I tend to see the world not so much in terms of things to look for as in terms of things to avoid. What would you normally be doing about now if you hadn't been lumbered with guiding me?'

Harvey shrugged and said, 'Sitting in my dorm room watching _Sick, Sad World _with my roommates.'

'Now there's an aspect of the college lifestyle I could go for. Go on, lead the way.'

* * *

'Excuse me, miss—'

The young woman moved back, and at the same time pulled something from her handbag, clutching it in a clenched fist. 'Keep away from me!' she shrilled. 'I've got a rape whistle and a can of Mace and you just keep away from me, or I'll call the campus police!' She backed rapidly further away, and in ninety seconds or so had disappeared from view.

Hank Brocklethwaite turned to his wife. 'Next time, you ask for directions.'

* * *

Dylan was sitting with Harvey and his roommates watching _Sick, Sad World _when a young woman came in to make a delivery to Harvey, a term paper he'd paid fifty dollars to have written for him. Dylan glanced at the first paragraph.

'You do know Piaget never worked with Freud, don't you?'

'All I told them was how long to make it', Harvey said.

'This isn't even the right spelling of "Piaget". Or of "psychology". You know, I could do you ten bucks worth of improvements to this without even trying.'

Harvey's roommates wanted to know whether they could pay Dylan to write their assignments as well. Dylan explained that any deals he made with college students had to be on a strictly cash basis.

* * *

'Excuse me, sir, ma'am, can I help you? I hope you don't mind my saying so, but you look a little lost.'

Hank Brocklethwaite was relieved to find this young woman different from the last. He let his wife speak first, though, just to be on the safe side.

'Yes, thank you, miss, we're looking for the Bursar's office.'

'I'd be happy to help you find it. I was just wondering, sir, if you'd mind doing a small favour for me?'

Hank smiled. 'I'm sure that would be no problem.'

'You see, I'm pledging a sorority here, and there's this little initiation test—it's a bit like a scavenger hunt?'

'Oh, college pranks! I remember those so well.'

'Are you a Middleton alum yourself, sir?'

'Yes, yes, I am.'

'Why, that's perfect! I can get extra points for that—that is, if you don't mind … I hope you don't take this the wrong way … but what I need to ask you for is, well, I know this may seem a little cheeky, but—would it be too much if I asked you whether you'd be prepared to give me your boxers?'

* * *

'I'm glad to have learned how to take care of myself, but really I think of swimming as being my sport. I think it's the best way of keeping in shape. Is there a swimming pool here at Middleton?'

The sorority girls looked at each other.

'There is a pool, yes—'

'—the thing is, it's supposed to be closed at the moment—'

'—but actually we do know how to sneak in, that is, if you'd like to—'

Kris thought about seeing the girls in their wet swimsuits.

'You have the best ideas', he said. 'I was just wondering aloud before, but now that you mention it—the only problem is, I'm afraid I don't have a swimsuit with me.'

They looked at each other again.

'We could probably find a suit you could borrow—'

'—if you didn't feel like you could just go in in your underwear—'

'—or we could try skinny dipping—'

* * *

'From the description you've given me, ma'am', Hank said, 'it sounds as if the solution you're offering to parents who have difficulty meeting the costs of a Middleton education is to refer them to a loansharking operation.'

'I'd be careful what I say if I were you, Mr Brocklethwaite. We're talking about a completely legitimate family business, with a normal variety of commercial interests.'

'Including cash loans, as you said before. Does this business ever offer you some form of referral fee when parents seek loans from them? May I ask whether you've ever heard of the Racketeering Influenced and Corrupt Organisations Act? How long have you worked here in the Bursar's office at Middleton? How well do you think your records would stand up to an examination by the FBI?'

* * *

'Excuse me', Dylan said, looking up at the college boy who had—probably—written the paper he was looking over. 'This thing you've put in here'—he pointed—'what is it?'

'Um … is it an apostrophe?'

Dylan nodded. 'I just wanted to see whether you knew. Now, can you tell me what it's for?'

The boy looked baffled. After an embarrassing pause, he tried to stammer out an answer, but Dylan cut him off.

'Listen, if you find yourself starting to put in an apostrophe, ask yourself what it's supposed to be doing there, and if you don't know, leave it out. Until you can master that much by yourself, I don't think I can help you with anything else.' He turned to Harvey. 'Look, it's been interesting comparing academic standards at high school and college—or the lack of them. But I've got my limits and I've reached them. Can you take me to the Bursar's office? That's where I'm supposed to meet my parents.'

* * *

'You were great in there!' Jacquie said to Hank. 'Of course, I knew there was something wrong with what that woman was saying all along, but the way you cut through it all …'

'Oh, I'm sure that if I hadn't been there, you would have dealt with the situation … somehow.'

'That's right! I mean, I don't think she would have snowed me completely … oh look, here comes Dylan!'

'Hi, mom, dad … are you as ready to leave Middleton as I am?'

'Where's Kris?'

'I don't know', Dylan said. 'I stayed with the tour guide. Was I not supposed to stay with the tour guide?'

'You are the older brother, Dylan. That does mean you have certain responsibilities.'

'Look, Hank! Here comes Kris now … oh … with the campus police …'

The police officers were escorting Kris and some college girls. One of the officers spoke to Hank.

'Mr Brocklethwaite?'

'Yes?'

'Mr Brocklethwaite'—she paused to clear her throat—'Mr Brocklethwaite, we don't want to have any public fuss, but I think it would be for the best if you and your family finished your visit to Middleton now.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'We do have certain rules here. Now, we realise that dealing with this … particular situation officially could cause some embarrassment, which we want to avoid if we can—'

One of the college students interrupted. 'Mr Brocklethwaite, I've already told the officers that this was in no way your son's fault. It was all because of—excuse me, sir, but may I ask whether you're a Middleton alum?'

'Yes, I am, but how is that relevant?'

'Well, there's this scavenger hunt …' She paused briefly and looked at the police officers again, just for a moment.

'Thank you, officer', Hank said, before the young woman could say any more. 'I think we'll be leaving now.'

* * *

The Brocklethwaites' doorbell rang and Hank and Jacquie went together to answer it.

'Hey', said Jacquie to the young woman on the doorstep, 'how'd you do in that scavenger hunt? Do you need something from me this time?'

'Er … no, uh … actually I was looking for your son, Dylan.'

'Young lady', Hank said, 'our son is sixteen years old. Now you may be thinking to yourself that he's over the age of consent, but he's still legally a minor and under his parents' guardianship, and I want to know just what your intentions are before you start making inappropriate suggestions.'

'Besides, you'd never get Dylan to—ouch!' Jacquie broke off as Hank trod on her foot at the same time as saying her name warningly.

'Oh, this isn't about the scavenger hunt.' The visitor held up an envelope. 'I've got something here for him—'

* * *

Dylan heard his parents having a conversation with somebody at the door and figured out what was going on just in time to get there before his parents heard something he didn't want them to.

'Excuse me, dad, mom. I think this is to do with something I wanted to discuss coming out of that visit I did for the college prep course. Confidentially, that is', he said, trying to put a clear significance into the look he gave the young woman on the doorstep.

'Oh, yes', she said. 'In confidence, of course.'

'This'll only take a minute', Dylan said, as he slipped past his parents and out the door, which he shut behind him.

'Excuse me', he said, 'but do you think I want my parents to know that I'm taking cash from college students to do their assignments for them? Why do you think I said nobody was supposed to come to my house? Was that too difficult to understand?'

'I'm sorry, I …'

'Excuse me, but you're wasting your time trying to get a college education if you can't even follow instructions as simple as that. So I'm going to help you and your colleagues at Middleton learn', he said, holding out his hand, 'by instituting a sliding scale of penalty charges.'


	4. Styles Of Participation

**Dylan**

_**4. Styles Of Participation**_

Dylan's parents—or at least his father, which was what counted in matters of this kind—had come back from the family's visit to Middleton College convinced that a record of involvement in extracurricular activities would be an advantage when it came time to make college applications.

Kris, of course, had the swim team. Even when he wasn't actually training he spent a lot of time just hanging out with the other members of his medley relay team and occasionally talked about starting up some undefined sort of club with them, maybe connected with the gym they went to for boxing practice.

Dylan, when it came to extracurricular activities, was more the conscientious objector (too bad there wasn't a club for them: Dylan could guarantee a perfect record of conscientious non-attendance). He couldn't see any point from a college application point of view, either. As far as he could tell—and his Middleton experiences had only solidified his attitude—the pivotal factor in college admissions, as in everything to do with higher education, was hard cash. But his father wouldn't listen. He wanted Dylan to get involved in something, and he backed his encouragements with a decisive threat: if Dylan didn't find something on his own, he was plainly informed, he would be at risk of condemnation to a summer music camp. Dylan had managed to escape from trumpet lessons back in third grade, but the lingering presence of the instrument itself had hung over his future for two years like a menacing cloud until some kind spirit had prompted his mother to run over the damn thing.

Suddenly the prospect of Ms FitzPatrick's most recent brainwave seemed marginally less appalling. At least Dylan could pay his extracurricular debt to society and get paroled after forfeiting less than the period of an entire summer camp.

Ms FitzPatrick had got her inspiration (to use the term loosely) after a class discussion (to use the term loosely) about (to use _that _term loosely) the effects of a recent burglary which had removed all the computer equipment from the local cybercafé, forcing it to shut down. She invited students to pledge to create a new student coffeehouse and performance space for young adults: to plan it, locate it, raise the money, and open it.

To the rhythm of a ghostly trumpet playing 'Pop Goes The Weasel' in his mind's ear, Dylan marched in to see Ms FitzPatrick and volunteer. Ms FitzPatrick naturally adopted the most disgusting interpretation, that Dylan wanted to perform at the coffeehouse, perhaps by reading one of his essays. Dylan wasn't that far gone yet. He explained that he'd been thinking more of helping to raise the funding.

When Dylan duly reported at the family dinner table that he had bowed to fate and signed up to help with the coffeehouse project, Kris made the same mistake of interpretation as Ms FitzPatrick had done.

'You're going to stand up in front of all those people and do some geeky … thing! to show everybody what a geek you are! You can't do that! Dad! Mom! Dylan's going to ruin my life!'

'That is a tempting incentive—but it's not enough to get me to perform in public. I'm only volunteering to help with fundraising. That'll get me the extracurricular credit without actually having to turn up at Ms FitzPatrick's stupid coffeehouse.'

Kris snorted. 'Well, good to see you've got some sense.'

'Now, Kris', their father said, 'I think it's great that Dylan's getting involved like this. Tell us more about the fundraising activities.'

Dylan shrugged. 'Oh, we're selling wrapping paper, chocolate bars, special-offer subscriptions, long-distance telephone cards, suicide prevention counselling … you know, the usual.'

'Suicide prevention?' his mother said. 'Dylan, you're not—'

'Jacquie, he wasn't serious!'

'It's more of an implied message. You know, why would anybody want to kill themselves if it meant missing out on all the fabulous special offers the next time we come around? I mean, can you think of anything more life-affirming? I know I wish I could.'

'Wait a minute', Kris said. 'Are you going to be walking around in public doing this? Knocking on people's doors? Talking to them in their homes? I'd better come along to make sure nothing happens that might hurt my reputation.'

'Okay', said Dylan, 'now I can _conceive_ of something more life-affirming. Kris, are you sure you want to be seen publicly associated with me?'

'Well, I think it's a great idea!' their mother said. 'My two boys, getting involved in an activity together, bonding as brothers!'

'Almost as if one of them weren't an only child. Have you been awake at all in the last ten years, mom?'

Dylan's father spoke before his mother could. 'I like the idea too, Dylan. You'll both learn some valuable lessons about teamwork as well as getting extracurricular credit. There's no harm in Kris broadening his range, but if you've decided you'd prefer music camp after all …'

'Stick a fork in me. I'm done.'

* * *

'Okay, Dylan, just remember, I'll do all the talking.'

Dylan shrugged as Kris rang the doorbell. He stood silently next to his brother until a plain young woman opened the door, and continued to stand there silently as Kris began his pitch for the long-distance phone cards they were supposed to be trying to sell, asking the woman about the quality of the service she was getting and suggesting the importance of clarity of reception. When Kris went on to say that the woman had a beautiful voice and that anybody who talked to her on the phone would want to hear it without interference, Dylan could see that the woman was starting to fall for the line Kris was spinning.

'Pretend your phone's ringing', Kris went on. 'Pretend it's me, Kris, and I'm calling you—?'

'Donna'.

'Donna? That's a really nice name. Let's say _I'm _thinking it'd be really nice to talk with Donna, so _your _phone's ringing, and _you _think you'd like to know who it is, so you decide to take the call.' Kris held his hand up to the side of his face with thumb and little finger extended to imitate a telephone handset.

Donna caught on and imitated the gesture. 'Um, hello, uh, uh, who is it?'

'Hey, it's Kris! Is that you, Donna? You'll have to speak up, there's so much static on the line.'

Donna raised her voice. 'Kris, hi, this is me, Donna!'

'That's great! Glad I caught you at home, gorgeous. Listen, weren't you telling me about that band you liked and the concert they'd be playing?'

'Oh, um, yes! Boys In Suits!'

'Right! Only please speak up!' Kris said. 'Anyway, I've got tickets to the concert, and I managed to get backstage access as well. I remembered how much you said you liked them. Do you want to come with me?'

'Oh, I'd love to!'

'Oh, that's too bad! Well, I understand. I'll see if Paula's free to come with me instead. Bye!' Kris mimed hanging up the phone to end the call. 'See how important it is to have good phone service?'

* * *

Dylan started to think that Kris would be able to fund the coffeehouse single-handed with all the phone cards he was selling. In a way that was kind of a pity. If the fundraising had been left to people like Kent Naylor and Karen Johnson, who would probably have difficulty remembering that part of making a sale was collecting money from the buyer, the stupid coffeehouse would probably never open, which would be all to the good as far as Dylan was concerned. But at least with Kris's success as a fund-raiser Dylan could get a share of the extracurricular credit. There probably wasn't any painless way of doing that but the pain of associating with his younger brother was at least one he was inured to.

Of course not all the people who answered the door to Kris were lonely unattractive young females. Some of them weren't even females at all. Like the outsize walrus now facing them in shorts the width of a barge and a sleeveless undershirt stretched over his lard in a series of terraces. But Kris wasn't fazed.

'Sir, let's say you're calling out to the liquor store for delivery of a fifth of Scotch, a twelve-pack, and a carton of menthols, just for example. Well, that's a pretty simple order to fill, wouldn't you think? But if your phone service isn't good, they might still mess it up because they couldn't hear you properly.'

The man scratched his head. 'If I'm calling out to the liquor store for delivery, I'm thinking I'm not gonna want long distance.'

'Good point, sir. Okay, let's take another example. Say you're calling a bookie to put down a bet. Aren't you going to want to be absolutely sure that he hears exactly what you say?'

'Hmm, say … w—uh—'

The man's voice changed, his breath rasped, he flushed as sweat ran down his face—and then suddenly he collapsed on the floor.

Dylan stood and stared, thinking that there was surely something they were supposed to be doing, but Kris didn't hesitate. He crouched down by the man and checked in his mouth. 'Come on, Dylan', he said. 'He's still breathing freely. Help me turn him.' He looked up. 'Come on!'

'Turn him?'

'Towards his side! It's a first aid thing, I learned about it at swimming. Don't you know anything?'

Dylan snapped into action and under Kris's guidance helped to shift the fallen mountain a little. Kris had checked the man's breathing again and was looking for a phone to call for emergency assistance when the man recovered consciousness and told them not to. He insisted that it was only a minor problem, that he knew all about it, that he'd be fine, and that if his doctor heard about it he'd only give him grief.

'Doctors', Kris said. 'I know. They'd stop us boxing too, if they could.'

'Say', said the man, who by this point had told Kris his name was Jorgensen, 'you box?'

'A little. I can hold my own.'

'Uh-huh', said Mr Jorgensen, nodding. 'So, how much for some of these phone cards of yours?'

* * *

Dylan's brief panic about the possibility of Mr Jorgensen's ringing the school to make a big fuss about how he'd been helped out was soon assuaged. Kris didn't want any word getting back to the school, either, because it would only put the association with his brother in the public eye, and Mr Jorgensen's main concern seemed to be pretending that he didn't have any serious health problems. All that happened when they got back to school was that they got the desired extracurricular credit. Some of the other volunteers (like Kent and Karen) hadn't been so successful, but with the money Kris (and, nominally, Dylan) brought in there was enough to open the coffeehouse.

Not that either of them cared about that. Having secured the extracurricular credit, Dylan had no need to go, and Kris had never planned on it in the first place, having plans for what he called a 'proper date' for the evening of the launch, or possibly two.

* * *

Rod didn't have anything better to do than turn up for the grand launch of Ms FitzPatrick's ridiculous baby, Café Lawndale, the new coffeehouse for 'young adults'. He figured some of the performances would have to be stupid enough to justify the price of admission, so he brought his sketchbook along.

Things looked a little promising when a girl he didn't know got up to sing 'Love Hurts'. He guessed that she was trying to look like a lounge singer, but to Rod she looked more like a seal that had somehow got into human clothes. When she sang, though, she didn't sound like a seal. The sound was like a combination of a pig being stuck, air being let out of a balloon, and nails being scraped down a blackboard. Rod sketched as fast as he could.

When Kent Naylor played the trumpet, on the other hand, he sounded pretty good. Rod wasn't surprised by that. He knew Kent was one of the leaders of Lawndale High's marching band, and Principal Chung regularly reminded the students of how much the marching band's achievements added to the school's glory. It figured that Kent would sound good on the trumpet the same way he looked good in his Junior ROTC uniform (if you liked that sort of thing). The problem was that on this appearance he wasn't wearing his Junior ROTC uniform. Karen Johnson was wearing it. Rod didn't know which of those two had come up with this particular brainwave, whether Karen had insisted on being part of Kent's act or Kent had been the one who insisted, but it looked as if the idea was for Karen to march around the stage in time to Kent's trumpet music. If Kent had tried to teach her the steps, it hadn't worked. The uniform didn't work on her either. Kent's face got redder and redder, and Rod didn't think it was because of the effort of blowing his trumpet. Some of Karen's fans from the cheerleading squad were at a table at the front, and they tried to give a cheer for her, but that seemed to be the last straw for Kent. He chased Karen off, and the sounds of a vigorous quarrel could be heard backstage. Rod sketched furiously.

The most prominent goth in Lawndale's student body recited this gem for the audience:

This poem  
Is a meaningless  
Waste of breath  
But not as much  
As the ones  
That are keeping  
You alive

Then he stumped off the stage, taking Ms FitzPatrick by surprise. She must have been expecting him to carry on for longer. When she looked haplessly around trying to figure what she was supposed to do next, her eye fell on Rod at the side of the room. She came up to his table.

'Rod! Doing some sketches of the performers? What a wonderful contribution that could make! We could put them up on the walls as a sort of portrait gallery.'

'Oh, I don't think you want to do that', Rod said. He turned the book round so that he could show her some of his sketches. She blanched.

'Oh!' she said. 'Oh! Well, those are … very … personal interpretations, aren't they?'

'Yeah, and I think we'd better keep them that way.'


	5. Discovery

**Dylan**

_**5. Discovery**_

'Hideous! Huge sores! Sometimes they even open up and weep pus! I've seen them! They're disgusting!'

Paper-Pellet Boy's grotesque rant had drawn the attention of half of Mr Bent's economics class, so Dylan didn't feel inhibited about taking a look in that direction himself. Other people were looking nauseated; Dylan just looked blank. Then he looked away again, wondering what the point of the display was supposed to be. When he'd made up his story about coming out in hives, he'd thought it was adequately plausible: many causes of urticaria were not well understood. Anyway, it was worth a shot. He couldn't think of any other way of getting out of the proposed class field trip to the 'Mall of the Millennium', the long-form title arrogated to itself by the new so-called 'super-mall'.

When Dylan had objected to the whole idea of the field trip, the only person to give him support was Rod (he had learned Paper-Pellet Boy's name from hearing teachers use it). Dylan had been pleased (to get any support) as well as suspicious. That didn't matter now, though. Mr Bent had put the question to a class vote and two votes against could not stop the field trip. That's why Dylan had tried inventing a story about a medical condition as a personal excuse, and now there was this. Rod's ham performance had taken away any chance Dylan had. What was Rod thinking of? Was he just having fun at Dylan's expense?

Still, looking at the revolted way people were reacting to Rod's hyperbolic descriptions, Dylan couldn't help being just a little impressed too.

* * *

Just as Dylan had feared, the field trip experience turned out a dire one. Kent Naylor might not have been able to bring his trumpet on the bus, but that only meant he practised his tunes on a mouth organ instead. Karen Johnson idled the time away with a competing rendition of 'Ninety-nine Bottles Of Beer On The Wall', explaining that the football players always sang it on the team bus. They interrupted each other only to provide the disturbing spectacle of a public make-out session. Meanwhile Upchuck was out of her seat every time the bus went round a curve, feigning inadvertence as she fell into the lap of one male student after another.

Things didn't get noticeably better when they transferred from the bus to the parking lot tram, or on the route march from the mall entrance to the conference room for the meeting Mr Bent had arranged with three mall executives. Dylan didn't expect things to get any better as long as he was compelled to remain in the company of the same collection of morons, and the leading executive made things worse, encouraging her captive audience to talk about the monument to consumerism they were all imprisoned in.

Upchuck was studying herself in a mirror along one wall of the room. 'Is this two-way glass?' she said. 'Are there people behind it watching us?' Typically, she seemed titillated by the idea.

Rod sprang to his feet. 'Easy enough to find out', he said. 'All we have to do is turn out the light', he went on, reaching for the switch.

'Let's discuss this first', said the mall executive, but she clearly didn't know Rod. He flicked the light off for long enough to let everybody see the three observers behind the glass, and then flicked it on again.

Joey Lyndon sprang to his feet as well and faced the mall executive. 'There were people in there looking at us', he said ingenuously. 'That's almost like what my mother does at her business when she uses a focus group for market research.' He dropped his voice theatrically. 'But you wouldn't _exploit _us like that without compensating us, would you? because that could be … _unethical_. You wouldn't do anything unethical—right? Not if it might get … _reported_.' He gave the mall executive his best innocent stare.

The mall executive looked disconcerted by Joey's little performance. 'Now, let's not be hasty', she said. 'I can see you're a bright young man, and as a token of our appreciation for your contribution to this little … _demonstration_, we'd like you to accept this coupon for a free frozen yogurt.'

Joey just stared at her. 'I suppose I could always ask my mother, Andrea Lyndon, how that compares to the normal rates of compensation for participation in focus groups.'

The executive swallowed. 'Andrea Lyndon? The folding coffee-cup inventor?' When Joey gave a stage nod, she said, 'How about a ten-dollar merchandise coupon?'

Rod joined Joey and waved his arm in an expansive circle to indicate the whole class. 'What are you thinking? Ten dollars worth isn't going to go far.'

'Twenty dollars worth? Each?' said the executive, pulling out fistfuls of coupons, provoking a prompt stampede for the booty by the class—bar Dylan.

* * *

In the mall corridor, the students (except Dylan) examined their payola coupons as Mr Bent assigned them in pairs to observe and report back on different aspects of the economic activity at the mall. Dylan found himself paired with Rod to study traffic patterns at the food concessions. He accepted his fate without enthusiasm and the two of them peeled off from the group to head for the food court and carry out their assignment.

Rod said, 'That woman had a spare merchandise coupon. I thought of grabbing it for you, but then I thought, "Nah".'

'Good call', said Dylan. He took a covert peek at Rod, but Rod was looking anywhere but at Dylan. 'Let's just get this over and done with.'

* * *

To begin with, Kris had liked the idea of getting away from school in a flashy expensive sports car with an older woman. He'd never been out with an older woman before—not a really older one, a woman in her twenties. He had liked the way it impressed Simon, too. As an extra feather in his cap, she was a student teacher.

But although her clothes and her accessories were fancy, she was a little too flashy to be truly classy. And the longer he spent with her, the more he could see that under her not quite skilfully enough applied make-up she wasn't good-looking enough either. She could only be a short-term interest. He'd just follow his reliable instincts to see how far he wanted to take things. She'd let him drive part of the way to the mall, which was cool. He liked the idea of checking out some things at the mall, too, and her suggestion of going there gave him a useful excuse. She wanted him to come with her while she looked around the clothes shops. He was happy enough to do that and use the chance to take a look for himself, but he wouldn't say that to her; instead he'd use it to get her, in exchange, to come with him while he looked at some other places he was interested in, like sports shops. Maybe somewhere along the line he'd be able to get her to buy something for him.

Their first stop, though, had been at the food court, and it was there that Kris saw something he didn't like seeing: Dylan. He never liked seeing Dylan out in public, and he liked it even less seeing Rod Rhode at Dylan's shoulder. There was no reason for anybody to be hanging around Dylan except to make trouble for him, and making trouble was exactly what Rod Rhode had a reputation for.

'I'm sorry', he said, 'but I think I recognise those two guys over there.'

'Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.'

'They're not my friends, but I can tell that the one on the right is up to something, something wrong. I need to go over there and put a stop to it.'

She simpered at him. 'Like a knight in shining armour.'

* * *

Dylan watched his brother giving Rod a stare that conveyed a routine assertion of established dominance, and Rod staring back with mild curiosity. Kris spoke first.

'I'm going to do you a favour and let you off easy, because everybody knows that Rod Rhode isn't exactly plugged in. But I'm telling you to your face now, so you've got no excuse for not knowing: while I'm at Lawndale High, everybody better learn to lay off this geek, including you.'

Rod looked Kris up and down. 'He's got an official research assignment with me for school. The way you're getting yourself involved in his business, anybody would think you were a relative of his.' He turned to Dylan. 'Can that be right? I thought I heard something about an only child?'

Dylan gave Rod a very short appraising look and then Kris a slightly longer one. 'You're right, I don't know what interest he thinks he has in me.'

'Then perhaps we can get on with finishing our assignment.' Rod turned back to Kris. 'You heard what he said: he got along without you before he met you, he's gonna get along without you now.'

Kris straightened up a little more and looked back and forth between Dylan and Rod. 'So you've finally found somebody on your own weird wavelength.' He shrugged. 'You know what? If you two just stick to each other, so much the better for everybody else.'

Without another word, all three turned their backs; Kris headed in one direction and Rod and Dylan in another.

The two of them walked together in silence until Rod pointed and said, 'Look! "Scissor Wizard"! I could use a new pair of scissors.'

Dylan was about to suggest that the shop looked more like a men's hairstylist, but Rod was already halfway through the door. Dylan surprised himself by summoning up enough curiosity to follow. He found Rod facing off with a man who could hardly have been more camp if he'd been a deliberate caricature of a male hairdresser.

'What kind of a rip-off is this?' Rod ranted. 'You've got a sign right out in front there saying "_Scissor _Wizard" in big letters! Scissor, right! As in "scissors"! That's all I want, a pair of scissors! How can that be so difficult? Where am I supposed to go for scissors if not a scissor shop?'

'I am so sorry', camped the man, 'but as you can see, this is a _salon_. However, it would be our dearest pleasure to style your hair for you exactly as you choose, _of course_. Many of our _clientele _like to select a style from a favourite television show.'

'How about _Sick, Sad World_?' said Dylan and Rod in unplanned unison. They turned to each other with stares full of wild surmise. Then Rod snapped his attention back to the hairdresser, who was giving them a look of puzzled inquiry.

'Ah, forget about it', Rod said, dismissing the hairdresser with a gesture of one hand, while he pulled out a coupon with the other. Then he turned to go, letting the coupon wave in the air. 'Come on, Dylan, let's see what we can do with this.'

Dylan hurried out the door after him. When he caught up with Rod, he asked, 'Where's the coupon for, anyway?'

Rod squinted at the writing for a moment. 'The Doo Dad Shop.'

'The what?'

Rod gestured. 'Over there, see? Come on, let's check it out. At least we can find out what they think a doo-dad is.'

When they stood in front of the shop and looked at the window display, it turned out that its stock in trade was …

'… junk', Dylan said. 'Useless, rubbishy, worthless trash. I figure the only thing that keeps them in business is that when any of this stuff gets broken the value increases.'

'Hey', said Rod, looking up from the display. 'See who's headed this way? Karen and Kent. Mr Bent assigned them to analyse shoplifting.'

'If shoplifters have any pride they wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this.'

'Then let's get inside quickly before those two numbskulls notice us.'

Rod dashed inside without waiting for a reply, so Dylan followed him, saying, 'There's just one flaw in your thinking.'

'Oh yeah?'

'For a place like this, numbskulls have to be the target market.'

Dylan was proved right a moment later as Karen and Kent entered The Doo Dad Shop, but before either Rod or Dylan could make additional comment four or five shop employees rushed forward singing a song about doo-dads. 'Congratulations!' shouted the manager, as she and her staff began piling merchandise into Kent's arms. 'You're our ten thousandth customer!'

'Hey, babe!' said Karen. 'You're a winner!'

'That's right!' said the manager. 'Now we'll just take a photograph for publicity purposes …'

Rod stepped forward and put a hand on one of the items in Kent's arms. 'Wait a moment! Isn't this supposed to be a doo-dad?'

'It's not yours, anyway', Karen said.

'But is there something wrong with it?' said Kent.

'Does that really look like a doo-dad to you? I'd say it's more of a doo-hickey.'

'I don't know', said Kent. 'How do you tell the difference?'

Dylan joined Rod and pointed to another item. 'That one might not be either. I think it's a thingumabob.'

'And here's a jigger.'

'And a gewgaw.'

'And a watchamacallit.'

'And a curio.'

'Look at everything else they've got here.' Rod turned away and gestured at some of the shelves. 'It's all bits and bobs.'

'And bric-à-brac', added Dylan, pointing in another direction.

'Knick-knacks and oddments.'

'Gimcrack paraphernalia', said Dylan, with great emphasis, as the capper.

'Is there not', said Rod, slapping a fist into his other hand, 'one honest-to-goodness doo-dad in this whole place? I've half a mind to go back to the executive who gave me this merchandise coupon and ask her whether there is _anything _in this entire mall that is not a rip-off.'

'Please', said the manager. 'I'm sure if we just discuss this calmly we can settle everything sensibly.'

'Are you offering to buy back the coupon for cash?' Dylan replied. 'That's very decent of you.'

Kent interrupted to ask, 'What about my photograph?'

'I'm sorry', the manager answered, 'I'll be with you in just a moment.' She produced a twenty-dollar bill from the register, handed it to Rod, and snatched away the coupon he was still brandishing.

Dylan and Rod left the shop together immediately, before the publicity session could resume.

Rod looked at the money he was holding between his hands. 'Twenty dollars', he said.

Dylan nodded in agreement. 'Twenty dollars.'

Then, without even looking at each other, they spoke in unison. 'Pizza?'

They stepped off as one to find it.


	6. Appearances

**Dylan**

_**6. Appearances**_

'You live in an actual padded room!'

Dylan shifted defensively. 'Hey, it wasn't for me. I'm not crazy.'

'No!' Rod said. 'What I meant was, half your luck!'

'Oh.' They walked on for a few paces in silence and then Dylan continued. 'The room was there before we moved in. For a schizophrenic shut-in.'

'Too bad we never had one of those at my place. I guess we can't really count Tierney.'

'Tierney?'

'Uh-huh. My sister. She does leave the house sometimes though. When they're power-scrubbing her room, and occasionally for band practice or a gig. If she's home when we get there I'll introduce you. No, scratch that, there she is right now. Hey, Tierney!'

Dylan stared speechlessly at Tierney Rhode. He bit the inside of his lip to control his reaction.

'Hey, Roddy', the young woman said smoothly and evenly. She looked calmly from her younger brother towards Dylan, causing his throat to seize up.

Rod responded by saying, 'Tierney, this is my friend Dylan. His family's moved here from Texas and he's at Lawndale High with me. Dylan, this is my sister Tierney. She plays guitar sometimes, when it doesn't cut into her busy sleep schedule.'

'Excuse me.' Tierney and Rod both turned towards the voice and Dylan wrenched his gaze away from Tierney to see what they were looking at. A car had pulled up at the side of the road and a passenger was leaning out of the front window. 'Do you think you'd be able to give us directions to this address?' The woman gestured with a piece of paper held in one hand and Rod moved towards her.

A moment later the driver got out of the car and started walking around it towards Tierney. 'Young lady', he said, and Dylan took an immediate dislike to his phoney accent and confiding condescension, 'I am Grigor Romanovych of the Amazon Modelling Agency. Have you ever considered a career in modelling?' He looked round at his passenger for a moment. 'Take a look, Claudine. Don't you think she's got a certain something?'

The woman finished her consultation with Rod and got out of the car to join the man in an appraisal of Tierney. They looked at her, then at each other, then at Tierney again. Grigor struck a pose with his wrists cocked against his hips. Claudine matched him by pursing her lips and putting the tip of one finger against the point of her chin. They looked at each other again and nodded significantly.

'Simply blazing with style', Claudine said.

'A potential superstar of fashion', said Grigor. 'Superstar? Supernova!'

'I don't think I'd have time for modelling', Tierney said. 'I'm focussed on my music career.'

Rod looked at Dylan and mouthed the words, _When she can keep awake_.

Grigor raised his eyebrows and produced a business card from a pocket. He proffered it ostentatiously and Tierney accepted it. 'My card', Grigor said. 'The Amazon Modelling Agency can always find a place for a _talented_ young lady.'

'Think it over', said Claudine, as the two of them turned away. 'This kind of opportunity comes once in a lifetime, not twice.' Then she and Grigor returned to their car and drove away.

When they'd gone, Tierney said, 'Well, I gotta get going to band practice. Nice to meet you, Dylan. See you later, Rod.' She walked to the kerb, where a battered junker was parked.

'Yeah, see you', Rod said.

Dylan managed to produce a few gargling sounds which could have passed for vowels with some charity in the interpretation, combined with a couple of squeaks for consonants, before Tierney got in her car and drove off.

'Come on', Rod said, pointing at a house and starting to walk towards it. 'That's the Rhode family home, where I sleep at night in my bed … and Tierney sleeps at night in hers.'

Dylan moved forward jerkily.

'I guess _you_ think Tierney has what it takes to make a model', Rod said, as he strode up to his front door.

'I hate you', Dylan mumbled at Rod's back.

'That's the solid foundation our friendship is established on. Good to see that your meeting with my sister hasn't damaged it.'

No more was said until they were inside the house and halfway up the stairs, when Rod spoke again.

'So, any idea what sort of scam those two were running?'

'Those two?'

Rod parodied their recent encounter, striking exaggerated poses and using a flagrantly bogus accent (which, like the one used by 'Grigor Romanovych', bounced erratically around the map of Europe). 'Gr_ee_-gor and Clau-din', of the Eh-_marr_-ZON Moh-Dell-Ing Agency.'

'Oh, right. Um, I dunno.' Dylan took a single moment for thought. 'Except it was obviously _some_ kind of scam.'

Rod opened a door off the upstairs hallway. 'So you _don't_ think they genuinely wanted to recruit Tierney as a model.'

'Stop talking about your sister', Dylan muttered behind Rod's back. Then, following Rod into the room, he said, 'All I know is that whatever they were up to, it wasn't legitimate. They should get together with Principal Chung. I'm sure he'd give them all the access they want to the school and its students as potential marks for their operation, if only they give him a big enough pay-off he can spend on some of his so-called security measures. Kris says there's been talk about bulletproof skylights for the swimming pool.'

'Well, you're learning fast. But in this case there's one particular piece of information you don't have. Mr Chung normally wouldn't have any qualms about commercial exploitation of the students for his gain, but once the word "modelling" comes into the discussion he'll be gun-shy.' By this point Rod had seated himself in front of a computer and was booting it up. 'Ever since one little … _incident_ … not long ago.'

'Incident?' Dylan knew a hint when he heard one.

'It involved a former Lawndale High student, you see. He used to live with his family next door to the Johnsons. He was a footballer himself, and he got Karen interested in it. She was already quarterbacking in middle school, and the two of them got close. Then, as they both got older, he got close to her in another way and introduced her to some more grown-up recreational activity—let's just say he got there before Kent Naylor did. Actually, he popped more than a few cherries around Lawndale.' Rod paused for a moment to get a Web browser started. 'But then he also popped an elbow, and although it more or less healed, that put paid to his football career. It was after that he dropped out of school and went off to pursue a different sort of career. He said he'd got a professional modelling contract, and Mr Chung made an official announcement about it, and about how he hoped the result would be great credit to Lawndale High.'

Dylan watched over Rod's shoulder as he hunted for something on the Web. 'But it wasn't?'

'Take a look at this website, Buffy Connor Productions. I guess you could call that modelling—if you wanted to give it a name that sounded presentable, without going into too many details.'

Dylan looked at the image on the screen and flushed as he listened to Rod continue.

'Maybe his past experience as an athlete helped him out too. Here, take a look at this one.' Rod brought another image from Buffy Connor Productions up on the screen. 'It's not just anybody that could get into that position, right? Although admittedly more of the burden to be flexible is being carried by the female performer. And here's another picture, there are plenty more. So you see, when a few of these pictures got into circulation, alongside Principal Chung's official announcement about the "professional modelling contract"—well, you can imagine the reaction …'

'They "got into circulation", did they?'

Rod turned and cocked an eyebrow at Dylan. 'Tell me, if Principal Chung asks you whether Rod Rhode had anything to do with that, what are you going to say to him?'

That was an easy one. 'I'm going to say that I've never asked him and I don't know anything about it.'

'So now you understand why there's no chance of Mr Chung agreeing to any suggestion about the school being associated with anything with the word "modelling" in it.' Rod started the process of shutting down first the browser and then the computer. 'Now you know how to find that stuff for yourself later if you want another look. _Sick Sad World_'s starting.'

The television faced the foot of the bed, so they both sat there to watch it.

A _Sick, Sad World_ reporter was interviewing a professional footballer. 'Isn't it unusual to see a star athlete bringing out a line of baby products?' he said.

'It's important to get them interested in sport early', said the jock.

Dylan realised something and turned to Rod. 'That story you were telling me before—you never mentioned the guy's name.'

'He wasn't really that interesting. I don't remember his name.'

* * *

Buffy Connor didn't remember the guy's name, but that didn't matter.

'You grew up in Lawndale, right?'

He nodded. 'Glad to get out of there, though.'

'Did you know a girl there called'—Connor looked down at the letter she was holding—'Ursula Priscilla Chalk?'

'Hey, 'scuse me, ma'am, but you can't expect me to remember the names of all the girls I _knew_'—he winked on the word—'in Lawndale! Or anywhere else, come to that!' He winked again.

She shrugged. 'I figure "Ursula Priscilla" for the kind of name you're not likely to forget in a hurry. Or, here she calls herself "U‑P". Does that ring a bell?'

He shook his head. 'Sorry, 'fraid not. Why the interest, anyway?'

'Well, she says she wrote to me because she knows I've moved into the production side of the business and she's interested in learning about "career opportunities".' She raised her eyebrows. 'She says she's got a stage name picked out, "Vixen", _and_ she wants to know whether we've ever considered filming at a school.'

He looked puzzled. 'Why would we want to do that? We can dress a set to look like one easily enough.'

'Oh, she says she thinks it would add'—Connor looked at the letter again—'something she calls an "air of authenticity". And she says she's sure there'd be some way to get it past the principal at Lawndale High if we're prepared to pay the man off.'

'Now that does sound like Principal Chung. One of many things I don't miss about Lawndale.' The young man looked thoughtful for a moment. 'There was this one girl back home, Karen—she was sweet. You know, _choice_. I taught her a thing or two, I can tell you! On top of football, that is.'

Buffy Connor was puzzled by the reference. 'Football? I never heard of that one.'

'Football! I mean actual football. You know, the sport. When we were kids, I got her interested in it. And then, when we weren't kids any more, I got her interested in some other things. But I think she also made varsity quarterback.'

'A girl? Quarterback?'

'Yeah, I know.' He shrugged. 'Still.'

'Hmm.' She picked up a notepad and jotted a few words on it. 'There could be an idea there we could do something with. Nobody ever seems to get tired of the cheerleader stuff, but what if we did something where the girl was the quarterback? I think it has possibilities.'

'So who would the guy be? Not a cheerleader, right?'

'No … the coach, maybe? Or another player with the team? We could even set up a threesome scene, where one girl's the quarterback and another one's a cheerleader. Or it might be an idea to make the girl one of the receivers instead of the QB.' He looked puzzled again, so she explained: 'You know, tight end, wide receiver … slotback?' She picked up the letter from Lawndale again. 'Thanks for the idea, "Vixen". But you're under eighteen, right? Sorry, I got no use for that.' She crumpled up the letter and pitched it into the wastepaper basket.

The guy—Buffy Connor still couldn't remember his name—got up. 'Well, I better get back to it', he said. He paused for a moment. 'Does bring back some good memories. Sixteen-year-olds at Lawndale High …'

* * *

'I just took a look in the fridge, and I wouldn't eat any of the things I saw. No telling how long they've been there. We could play "Twenty Questions" with them, animal, vegetable, or mineral. There's a couple of places I can look, see if my parents have left enough loose cash lying around to buy pizza.'

'Why don't you just come round to my place for dinner? You said you wanted to see the padded room anyway. And I'm pretty sure today's a safe day.'

'Safe day?'

'My mom works as a caterer. So long as she sticks to the stuff she's cooked a hundred times before, she does all right. But every once in a while she has some hideous brainwave about trying something new, and she uses the family dining table for the lab experiments.' Dylan shuddered. 'The first day for Kris and me at Lawndale, she gave us some new "snack treats" to share around. Even Kris had sense enough to throw them away, and I could tell mom honestly that I hadn't made any friends to give samples.'

'So these are things that could have made you even more unpopular?'

Dylan nodded. 'Hard to imagine, I know.'

Rod gave a soft pensive grunt. 'Okay, let's go. If your mom does come up with some inedible productions, maybe I'll find a way to repurpose them as art supplies. And you're probably not ready yet to have dinner with Tierney.'


	7. Paired Up

**Dylan**

_**7. Paired Up**_

'So you'll be working together, Joey and Van. That's very good. And Karen and Kent, that's very good too. Now, Dylan Brocklethwaite—who are you going to be working with?'

'I seem to be alone, Mr Storch, as usual. That's okay, though, I can still do the assignment. I work just fine by myself.' Dylan dropped his voice. 'In fact I prefer it—and so does everybody else.'

'Do we have an odd number in the class? I thought it was even now, which means that we've got somebody else still looking for a lab partner.'

'Over here, Mr Storch!' The oleaginous voice vibrated across the science classroom.

'U‑P!' said Mr Storch. 'Excellent! You and Dylan can be lab partners for this project.'

'I really prefer working alone', Dylan muttered, as Upchuck crossed the room to sit next to him.

'Dylan', Mr Storch said, his voice lowered, and then, apparently changing his mind, raised it again. 'All the class has an opportunity to learn an additional lesson here.'

As Mr Storch prepared to lecture them, Upchuck settled on the seat next to Dylan and put a hand on his thigh, which she squeezed. 'I'm looking forward to working very closely with you as my partner, Tiger.' Dylan winced and edged his seat away from her.

'Now, what I'd like to draw to your attention is this', Mr Storch said. 'In this society, we all experience gender stereotypes. One of those stereotypes tells us that science is a masculine activity, unsuited for females. But that isn't so. I know, from personal experience, how damaging it can be to let yourself be unconsciously affected by gender stereotypes. I learned that the hard way, through the failure of my marriage. I was blinded by my preconceptions and had no idea there was anything wrong. Don't make the same mistake! Learn to free yourself from the influence of stereotypes before it dooms you to failure in a personal relationship. With this project, you'll be able to see how individuals of both genders can collaborative effectively in scientific work, benefitting from the distinctive contribution of each. I really can't stress enough how important it is for everybody to develop a deep understanding of these gender issues. Oh, and of course that stuff about conditioning people with positive or negative reinforcement which you'll be doing to get the mice to run the mazes you build. Although'—he said as a new idea seemed to strike him—'it's also possible that positive and negative reinforcement play a part in conditioning people to accept gender stereotypes. Would anybody like to suggest an examp—'

Before Mr Storch could get any further into his stride, the bell rang and class was dismissed—but as Dylan was leaving, Mr Storch called him back in order to preach at him.

'I would have thought, Dylan, that you were not the sort of person to allow yourself to be influenced by the gender stereotypes that pervade our society. I hope you'll make good use of this lab project to see through your partner's conformity with a socially defined role to the unique individuality beneath it.'

Dylan succeeded in suppressing a shudder at the thought of Upchuck's unique individuality and converted it into a non-committal one-shoulder shrug.

* * *

Rod got a nasty surprise at lunch when Upchuck sat down at his cafeteria table and said, leaning in towards him, 'Hi there, Hot Stuff. Do you mind if I—_join_ you?'

'Do you mind if I vomit on the table?'

'Oh, you've got a wild sense of humour! I do like that in a man.' Upchuck turned her head at just that moment, to greet Dylan, who'd taken the seat next to Rod, with the words, 'Of course, I like the serious intellectual type as well. Looking forward to our _collaboration_, partner?'

Rod saw disgust move across Dylan's face, to be replaced by calculation.

'We could build the maze in the garage at my place', said Dylan.

'I can hardly wait for it', said Upchuck, rising from her seat to move round next to Dylan and lean in over him. 'I'll see you _tonight_', she said throatily, 'and we are going to have so much fun.'

Both Rod and Dylan avoided watching her walk away.

When she was gone, Rod said, 'Did you just invite Upchuck to your place?'

'Mr Storch has assigned us to be partners on a lab project. We're supposed to build a maze and then use it to condition a mouse using positive or negative reinforcement. If it were you, would you want to go to _her_ place?'

Rod gave a little shudder. 'I see your point. You needed to head that one off at the pass. Still, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes tonight, opening the front door to let Upchuck in.'

'You haven't known me very long, have you?'

'Okay, what am I missing here?'

'Imagine the scenario at my house tonight.'

Rod interrupted. 'Is this what you were thinking about just now, when you said Upchuck could work with you in your garage?'

Dylan nodded and went on. 'The doorbell rings at my house. What does that signify?'

Rod screwed up his face with puzzlement. 'That somebody wants to come in, obviously.'

'So what happens next?'

'If somebody wants to come in, you come to the door to let them.'

'Now, why on earth would you expect me to be the one to do that? I mean, ever?'

* * *

Kris's father was busy with a phone call from his boss. So instead, Kris's mother had trapped him in the kitchen and was trying to use him as a guinea pig for her latest cooking experiment. (Dylan had already said something about working on something for school and disappeared.) Luckily, the doorbell rang at just that moment.

'I have to get that!' Kris said, and rushed to the door.

Kris was used to answering the doorbell and finding girls had come to see him. Most of them were at least worth checking out for a moment. Not this one.

'What are you doing here, Upchuck?'

'Well hello there, Handsome! What an … _unexpected pleasure_', Upchuck said breathily. 'Lucky me to find you home!'

'Kris, who is it?' said his mother, appearing behind him, and then, as she saw Upchuck, 'did you forget to mention you had a date tonight?'

'Good evening, Mrs Brocklethwaite. My name is Ursula Priscilla, but my friends call me U‑P. I have the good fortune to be at Lawndale High with your two charming sons, but I'm afraid tonight's not my lucky night for a date. By the way, I hope I haven't dragged _you_ away from anything important.'

'No, not at all! I was just experimenting with something new in the kitchen. Perhaps you'd like to try a sample? Kris, why don't you show your friend in?'

Kris couldn't get a word in as Upchuck slithered into the house, passing uncomfortably close to him and talking all the while.

'Thank you, Mrs Brocklethwaite, that's very generous of you. Why, you make me feel almost like one of the family. I must say that it's such an honour for me to be invited into the Brocklethwaite inner circle.'

'Mom!' Kris protested. 'She is not my friend!'

'Kris! Manners! Please! Now come along, the kitchen's through here. Kris, are you coming? Don't leave the door open!'

Kris closed the door and unhappily followed into the kitchen, where he found Upchuck tasting soup from a spoon offered by his mother.

'Ah!' she said, with an expression on her face that Kris understood, although she didn't tell Kris's mother what she really thought. 'Very—innovative! But intriguing as it is, I mustn't let myself be diverted from my purpose for the evening.'

'Yeah, why are you here?' said Kris.

'Pleasant though it is to enjoy your company'—Upchuck leaned towards Kris for a moment, giving him a display of her over-stuffed cleavage—'and your mother's original cooking, I'm supposed to be working with Dylan on a lab project.'

'Well, that's great!' said Kris's mother. 'Say, where did Dylan go?'

Kris concentrated. 'I think he said something about some project he was supposed to be working on. Maybe he's in the garage?'

'Then why don't you show your friend where that is?'

Kris didn't bother trying to tell his mother again how he felt about his so-called 'friend' Upchuck. The sooner he dumped that problem in Dylan's lap, the better.

* * *

Dylan looked up as the door opened, and saw Upchuck framed in the doorway in what she must think was a seductive pose.

'Why, what excellent progress you're making on that maze! I do like to see a man who's good with his hands. Of course I know you have the ability to finish this whole project by yourself, but I do hope you'll still make a little room somehow for little old me.'

Behind her, Dylan could see his brother trying to shut the door, blocked by the form of their unwelcome visitor.

'I'll just leave you two to get on with it', said Kris.

'Oh, I wouldn't want to get between the two of you', Dylan said. 'I can get on with this by myself while you improve on your acquaintance.'

Upchuck stood in the doorway, swivelling her glinting gaze back and forth between the two brothers, with her torso following suit. She was obviously only too happy to prolong the triangular tension for as long as she could.

The impasse between Dylan and Kris was broken by the appearance on the scene of their father.

'Kris, what are you doing with our guest?'

'Good evening, Mr Brocklethwaite. My name is Ursula Priscilla, but my friends call me U‑P.'

'She's Dylan's lab partner for the school project he's working on.'

'So let them work, Kris, and don't interfere.'

'Oh, he wasn't interfering, Mr Brocklethwaite. He was graciously acting as my guide.'

Dylan could see that his father, knowing nothing about Upchuck, was predictably misreading the whole situation: he liked the idea of his older son spending time with a girl, and he was leaping to a natural but mistaken conclusion about his younger son's intentions towards that same girl. This led him to respond to Upchuck's remark by saying, 'But I'm sure Kris has something else he can be doing now', taking the door out of Kris's hand so that he could close it behind Upchuck as she walked across to where Dylan was working.

Dylan winced inwardly. Despite his best efforts, he was trapped at a workbench next to Upchuck. It was as if the girl herself was partnered in a cosmic conspiracy by Dylan's science teacher, Dylan's brother, and Dylan's father.

'You can go home now, if you like', he said without much hope. 'I've got the whole project under control at this stage.'

She put a hand on his forearm. 'Oh, I just know you do. I'm not trying to mess up your marvellous work. I just want to show you how much I appreciate it.' She leaned closer to him.

Dylan gritted his teeth and stepped back to get further from Upchuck. He didn't have much hope of getting anywhere by appealing to her rationally, but he didn't have any better ideas.

'You know what show of appreciation I'd like? I'd like a good grade on this project.'

Upchuck moved towards him again, and this time he dodged all the way round to the other side of the bench. She leaned across in his direction, resting her hands on the bench, as she answered him.

'Of course you do, and you're sure to get one, just like you always do. I deeply admire your commitment to academic achievement.'

'Can you just keep still for a minute while I outline a scenario?'

Upchuck partly straightened, still tilting towards him a little. 'I love it when you're masterful, and you intrigue me profoundly. Do go on.'

'Imagine we present our project in Mr Storch's class. Imagine he asks you to talk about it, and imagine you tell him that you didn't bother your pretty little girlish head about it because you were partnered with a man who took care of all that.'

Upchuck tilted her head to one side. 'Do you really think I'm a pretty little girlish thing, you shameless flatterer?'

'The question is whether you think you're just a pretty little girlish thing, and what sort of grade that's likely to get from Mr Storch, for both of us.'

That finally shut Upchuck up for a minute, a better result than Dylan thought he had any right to expect. He pursued his advantage.

'Here's another scenario for you. Consistently excellent grades at Lawndale High help you to get into a top college, where you go to fraternity parties with men from the most glamorous, successful, and celebrated families.'

Upchuck closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. 'I _do_ like the way you think. Mm-mm.' She opened her eyes again. 'You interest me more and more.'

Dylan made another effort. 'If you really want to impress me, shift your focus from my Y chromosome to the assignment and show me what you can do in that department.'

'I'm nothing if not—_flexible_. In fact, I do get consistently good grades. People just tend not to notice because they get'—she shimmied a little from side to side—'_distracted_. But I'll hold back on any more of that until Mr Storch grades our project. So long as you don't mind what I do around your brother. Deal?'

'Kris can look after himself. It's open season on him as far as I'm concerned.'

Upchuck positively licked her lips.

* * *

'After we'd explained how we'd trained the mouse, Upchuck told Mr Storch I'd given her some new ideas about approaching people as people, not as gender stereotypes. Then she said his teaching deserved credit for its inspirational power, and started coming on to him, and I threw up in my mouth a little.'

'But you got the "A".'

'Sure', Dylan said to Rod, 'but how'd you like constant hints from Upchuck about how you should invite her as your date to Karen Johnson's big party on Friday? She seemed to think that didn't break the terms of her deal with me, so long as we worked on the assignment as well.'

'You didn't tell me you were invited to that party.'

'I'm not, but Upchuck thinks crashing just makes it more exciting.'

'There's something in that. I had a good time crashing Kent Naylor's big party, at least until I met Upchuck for the first time. By the way, how did Karen and Kent do on the big lab project?'

Dylan gave Rod a look to express how obvious the answer to that question should be. 'Kent's little sister took the mouse and turned it into a pet. They didn't understand why that counted as a failure.'

'They probably used the time to make out, so for them it wouldn't count as a failure.' Rod changed the subject back. 'So, wanna crash Karen's party with me?'

'What's the big attraction, anyway?'

Rod pulled out a sketchbook. 'Look, I'll show you some of the drawings I got from Kent's party.' He flipped through the pages, and then turned the book so Dylan could see. 'Here's Simon Griffith and a couple of other jocks from the swim team', he said.

'I don't know who the blond is, but that one', Dylan said, pointing at the boy with the East Asian appearance, 'is Tim. He swims in the medley relay. I don't know how being around jocks is supposed to be an attraction. I get enough of that at home, with Tim, Simon, and Stevie all hanging around with Kris, like swimming together makes them blood-brothers or something.'

Rod had been hoping that Dylan would appreciate what he'd been doing with his caricatures. He flipped to another page to try again.

'I've got Kris here as well, with three cheerleaders all over him.'

Dylan winced. 'That reminds me. Kris will be at Karen's party, too, as if Upchuck weren't enough reason to keep me away. But you've just given me an idea. Mind if I use your phone?'

'Be my guest.'

The phone was answered quickly after Dylan dialled. 'Hello?' he said. 'This is Dylan Brocklethwaite. Look, I'm definitely not going to be able to make it to the party, but my brother Kris is going. I don't know how he could resist hooking up with you if you meet him there.'

After the call was finished, Dylan and Rod shared a look of perfect mutual understanding. 'Nice work', said Rod. 'Two birds with one stone.'


	8. Corrupted

**Dylan**

_**8. Corrupted**_

Dylan and Rod walked out of Ms LeBeau's class together to see Kris talking with a blonde girl that Dylan didn't recognise.

'Babysitting's not the kind of thing I have experience of, Robbie', Kris was saying.

'Oh, you wouldn't have to do any of the babysitting. I have the kids in bed and asleep by 7:30, and after that I have the house to myself, just waiting until the parents get home at 11:30. We could have four hours to ourselves, just to hang out, maybe watch television, or—you know, anything you feel like doing.' The girl looked downward as she gave Kris a meaningful smile.

'I have to think about training, though. It's important to keep in shape, and I owe it to the team, too.'

'Well, I'll give you the address anyway, and maybe you can come past after your training session tomorrow night. Remember, the whole house to ourselves!'

When they'd walked on out of earshot, Dylan said to Rod, 'That girl may know what sort of line to spin for Kris, but she hasn't got a chance with him unless she can lose some weight.'

'You can have some fun babysitting, though', said Rod. 'I did it once.'

'Babysitting doesn't sound like your kind of thing any more than it's Kris's.'

'My oldest brother Sky has four kids. Tierney and I got a lot of practice looking after them. A few years ago Tierney used that experience to set herself up in business. Then she had to turn down one job because she had a commitment with Mystik Spiral. The client asked her if she could recommend another reliable babysitter and she suggested me.'

'I'm not sure that I'd name reliability as your most obvious characteristic, at least not the kind of reliability they would have been looking for in a babysitter.'

A corner of Rod's mouth quirked. 'I guess the Gundys thought the same. I got banned from their house after that one night.'

'The Gundys? That name sounds familiar. Wait a moment.' Dylan fished for the memory. 'I know, Kris does yard work for them.' Then they arrived at their next class and Dylan dismissed the subject from his mind.

* * *

Most of Dylan's attention was on _Sick, Sad World_, but he could still hear Kris's telephone conversation. Evidently the Gundys needed somebody to fill in at the last moment because their babysitter had cancelled. Dylan knew that Kris was unavailable that Saturday night, although even if he'd been free he'd be no more likely to take on a babysitting job than Dylan himself. Maybe the Gundys just didn't know many teenagers.

Kris was assuring the Gundys that if he thought of anybody who could help out, he'd let them know. Then he hung up, and walked back into the living room.

'As if I'd give up a Saturday night date with Tyler Felton', he said as he sat down. Then he turned to look at Dylan, and a train of thought moved across his face with painful obviousness. 'You know', he said, faking a casual air, 'the Gundys are very generous.'

'And you'd like to do them a favour in return', Dylan said, 'without a single thought for yourself of how that might encourage them to be even more generous.'

'I'd be doing something for you', Kris said.

'Yeah, dumping me in a house full of little kids. Thanks so much.'

'You could earn money and do homework at the same time. It's not like you'd have anything better to do on a Saturday night.'

'Forget it. I know you think I was put on earth so you'd have to look out for me, but what happened to make you think I'd start _accepting_ favours from you?'

Kris just shrugged, and their conversation, such as it was, was interrupted by their mother calling them to dinner.

Dinner itself was one of her better efforts, but it came with the unwelcome announcement that she and their father (who was out at a meeting for work) would be hosting a meeting of a couples therapy group which was going to be discussing raising teenagers, and the younger Brocklethwaites were therefore expected to be present.

'Saturday?' said Kris. 'Tomorrow? But I've got a date!'

'A date?' Dylan said. 'I thought I heard something at school about a training session for the team.'

'Tomorrow night? No, there's no training session tomorrow night.'

Dylan's mother looked from him to his brother. 'Are you sure what you're doing?'

'I've got a date. And you remember what Dad said the other day about keeping to our commitments.'

'That's true, he did say that. Well, at least you'll be there, Dylan.'

If there was one thing Dylan had learned from life, it was how to choose the lesser of two evils. 'I have to do something else tomorrow night.'

'You do?' said Kris.

'Remember, that babysitting job you just told me about. We wouldn't want to disappoint the Gundys after their other babysitter cancelled, would we?'

'The Gundys? They're supposed to be coming here for the couples group. I suppose if they need a babysitter, Dylan, you'd better go. And Kris, I'm worried that you're forgetting about your schedule. Your father's set up an appointment for me tomorrow with a time management consultant, Donny Ducker, and you should come with me.'

Kris's face tightened slightly. 'I'm not having any trouble keeping track of my schedule.'

Kris's firm refusal promptly revealed the real reason for the invitation. 'Please come with me? I don't want to go alone. I'll give you twenty dollars to spend on your date!'

Neither Dylan nor Kris liked it when their mother sounded like a little girl, but cash bribes were always hard to resist.

* * *

Donny Ducker asked Jacquie and Kris to make a list of their most important objectives in life, in order of priority.

Jacquie hesitated.

'Well, number one is home plate', said Kris. 'Then number two would have to be third base and number three second base. Number four—first base, I guess.'

'Kris!' Jacquie exclaimed sharply.

'Lots of teenage boys focus on sports, Mrs Brocklethwaite', the time management consultant said. 'If the baseball team is the most important thing to Kris at this stage of his life, you should accept his being open about it.'

'Baseball isn't my sport. I'm on the swim team, and I box, although they don't have boxing at school. Sports need to be on my list of priorities too, though. Thanks for reminding me.'

'So if you weren't talking about baseball …' Donny Ducker caught the look on Jacquie's face, paused, cleared his throat, and adjusted his tie before continuing.

* * *

'So you've taken a job babysitting for the Gundys? Inspired to compete with me? Want to see whether you can get banned from the house after just one night too?'

Even at the other end of a phone line, Rod could hear the stress in Dylan's voice as he asked for advice. He chewed on his lip for a moment while he thought.

'You might find it's a good idea to come supplied with ice creams. Only don't tell the parents about that. But in my experience, offering ice cream can get even the brattiest kid to shut up.'

* * *

The Gundys' house had five exactly identical windows identically trimmed with identical curtains identically tied back and identical ornamental window boxes, like something out of a children's drawing, but it was the yard that had the strongest impact on Dylan. How could Kris do yard work here? The lawn was covered with a bestiary of ceramic animals and the worst kind of garden gnome holding a sign saying 'The Gundys' in ornately embellished script. And if Dylan wasn't starting to hallucinate (and he didn't think he was that lucky), there was an actual wishing well.

Dylan was still trying to come to terms with the further assault on his sensibilities at the front door, a flag with a smiley-face daisy, when the door was opened by Mr Gundy, who told Dylan to come in and to call him 'Lawrence'. Dylan sat down on a couch in the middle of interior décor which tended to confirm the exterior appearance, while Mr Gundy went to fetch the rest of his family.

There was a photograph of the Gundy children next to the couch, looking like the cherubs Dylan always imagined tormenting him in his own version of hell. As he wondered how they might receive him, Dylan thought back on how he had dealt with babysitters when he was younger. Mostly Kris had occupied their attention, leaving Dylan to his usual resentful sullenness, but there was one babysitter whose contribution Dylan would never forget.

He'd been a neighbour, and he'd been babysitting during that early period when Dylan had still had an advantage in weight, height, and reach sufficient to compensate for Kris's greater congenital aptitude for combat. They'd been scuffling on the floor with the ineffectual vigour of small children, and the babysitter had broken the two of them apart and said, 'If you boys are going to fight, you should learn to do it properly.'

Dylan had looked at him with bafflement and Kris with curiosity. At that moment a seed had rooted in the youngest Brocklethwaite's mind.

Later, it was the same neighbour who took Kris to the gym for his first boxing lessons.

Dylan's morose ruminations were interrupted by the return of Mr/Lawrence Gundy with his wife, Lisa, and the children, Mike and Muffy, who stood there glinting like perfect model children as their parents reminded Dylan of the rules they had already given him when they booked his services. He still didn't have any girlfriend to ask over, nor any particular reason to use the phone. Then the Gundys reviewed the schedule prepared for the evening, in fifteen-minute blocks (as recommended, apparently, by Donny Ducker), told him the 'vocabulary word' for the evening, mentioned food in the fridge, and said goodnight to the children, who reciprocated.

When they had gone, Dylan looked glumly at the schedule and said, 'I suppose we're meant to discuss current events now.'

'Are you kidding?' said Mike. 'What do you think we are?'

'Can we have ice creams?' said Muffy.

Dylan stared at them. 'Your parents said there was food in the fridge.'

'Raisins', said Mike in a voice full of disgust, and his younger sister pulled a face.

Dylan shrugged, and reached into his backpack for supplies. 'Good thing Rod told me to bring these', he said, as he handed out the goodies.

'Rod? Rod Rhode?'

'Do you know Rod?'

'He's a friend of mine.'

'He's the best babysitter ever', said the children emphatically. 'He taught us to play video games. Say, have you got any video games?'

'Not with me.'

'Can we watch television then?'

'It's not on the schedule', Dylan said cautiously.

'Who cares about that? What our parents never know won't hurt them.'

'You learned a lot from Rod, didn't you?'

'He's the best babysitter _ever_.'

'Well, let's see what's on', Dylan said. He picked up the remote control, and quickly made an unpleasant discovery: the Gundy parents had every channel locked out except for the one devoted exclusively to weather forecasts.

'Rod showed me how to fix that', said Mike.

'But you forgot.'

'You don't remember either, Muffy.'

'I wish Rod were here.' Muffy looked up at Dylan wistfully.

'Let me guess. If I call Rod and ask him over, you won't tell your parents how many of their rules I've been breaking?'

Both children nodded. As Dylan picked up the handset, they added, 'Tell him to bring video games. And junk food.'

* * *

Outside the Felton house, Kris had been kissing Tyler for ten minutes. He started strategically manoeuvring his hands towards better targets. Tyler broke away from him.

'We've had a really great time tonight, haven't we? I can't remember ever having a better first date.'

'Yeah, it was good.' Kris started to move in on her again.

'You know, I get a lot of guys wanting dates with me', Tyler said. 'But I don't say "Yes" to just anybody. I want you to know that, because I think you're really special.'

Kris felt his antennae quivering, but he just said, 'You're a special girl too, Tyler.'

'It's very sweet of you to say so. That makes me feel we'd be a good couple. You know, if we spend more time together and decide we really want to make a commitment to each other.'

Kris could see how Tyler had increased the distance between them by that little that meant so much. Sure, he should be able to cross that barrier, but was it really worth the time and effort it would take—and the other lost opportunities?

'You know, I'm always going to remember this date', he said. 'But I guess I really shouldn't keep you up too late. Plus I need to get up early tomorrow for training.'

Tyler leaned a little closer again to offer a goodnight kiss, and Kris figured he might as well take that one last kiss while the taking was good.

* * *

'Your parents are due back in fifteen minutes', Dylan said, 'and you did say they can come home early sometimes.'

Mike and Muffy both groaned, but acquiesced. The litter of junk food wrappings and crumbs was tidied up, the video games were replaced in Rod's backpack, and the television was restored to weather forecasts only. Before Rod left, the children got him to take the raisins from the fridge so he could dump them somewhere the Gundy parents wouldn't find them, along with the rest of the rubbish.

'G'night, Mike', said Rod. 'G'night, Muffy.'

'G'night, Rod! You're the best babysitter ever!'

Dylan closed the door behind Rod and turned back to the children. 'You'd better put yourselves to bed before your parents find out you've been up late. Remember, I won't tell if you don't.'

The children nodded.

'You're not like Rod.' They thought for a moment, and then said, 'Guess you're okay.'


	9. Esteem

**Dylan**

_**9. Esteem**_

'Hey!' said the girl. 'Looks like things are working out for you. I guess Mr Sher did fix you up with what you needed.'

Blake shrugged, then nodded, then walked across to the receptionist's desk. 'Can I go in?'

'Yes, Mr Sher is free now.'

Blake walked into the office. The gym owner came out from behind his desk and clapped him on the shoulder.

'Looking good there. Happy with the results?'

'Well, I swam my best time yet.' Blake pulled out his wallet. 'Almost got what I wanted. You said you'd get some more stuff for me?' He started to count out notes.

* * *

'Hi!' said Karen.

'Hi!' said Kent.

'Er, hello', the woman mumbled, and hurried away from them. Another woman walked past.

'Hi!' said Karen.

'Hi!' said Kent.

'Forget it', said the woman, shaking her head as she went past.

Karen and Kent walked a little further, and then a little girl in fancy-dress fairy costume saw them. They tried to greet her, too.

'Why are you dressed like that?' she said. 'You're strange. Girls don't play football, boys play football!' She pointed at Kent. 'You should be wearing the football uniform, not that fluffy pink tutu! That's a girl's thing! You're all wrong!' She started to cry.

* * *

There were a couple of girls sitting at the cafeteria table beside which Kris and Blake crossed paths. Kris gave them only the brief glance needed to rate them in the 'plain to homely' category before Blake spoke to him.

'Kris.'

'Blake. Heard about that time you swam.'

Blake shrugged. 'What can I say? I've been training for that for a long time. Still gotta keep working at it though.' He walked away.

One of the girls at the table spoke up. 'You know, Kris, if Blake gets into the swim team, it'll boost his popularity.' She looked to her friend. 'Don't you think so?'

'I guess. But we'll still like Kris, won't we?' The first girl nodded in reply.

Kris shrugged without looking at them and walked away. No matter what happened there was no way he was going to lower himself to their level.

* * *

'Thank you for that excellent report, Karen, Kent', Mr Storch said. 'Do you see the contrast, class? In last week's part of the experiment, Karen wore a stereotypical female outfit, a dress and high-heeled shoes, while Kent wore his marching band uniform, which is accepted as a male costume, and passersby returned their greetings cheerfully. This week, Karen wore her football uniform and Kent wore a female ballet dancer's costume, and they experienced the radically different reception they've just described. Now, everybody here at Lawndale High knows that Karen is the quarterback of our football team, and a very successful one—'

'That's right!' said Kent.

'Yeah!' added Karen.

'In fact, in recent years a number of women and girls have participated successfully in football both at school and college levels. But this has not yet altered people's stereotypes. We have here an excellent example of how people are forced to conform to gender stereotypes if they want to be recognised in our society as—'

The bell interrupted Mr Storch, who said they'd pick up the discussion in their next class. Dylan picked up his things and went out to find Rod.

* * *

'You know Blake, don't you?' said Kris.

'Blake?'

'He's in your grade.'

Dylan looked at Kris blankly.

'Of course, I shouldn't have expected you to know anything about anything important. He's after my place on the swim team, okay?'

Their mother looked up from her dinner. 'Your place on the swim team? Well, I don't want you to get too worried about it, Kris. You know, when I was at school, Ma'am wouldn't let me go out for any sports, even intra-mural ones at the convent, because she thought it wasn't ladylike. But your value as a person doesn't depend on your sporting performance, isn't that right, dear?'

Her husband looked up from the legal papers he'd been studying. 'There's no denying that a big success in sports can help to boost a man's career. I'm afraid that's just the way the game is played.'

'That's obviously what Blake thinks', Kris said. 'He's been trying to get on to the swim team for a long time, but he's never had the physique for it, no matter how much he trained. Now suddenly he's bulked up.'

'You mean', said Dylan, 'a wannabe jock got a new set of muscles out of thin air? I wonder what possible explanation there could be for that?'

'You think because you're a brain you're the only one who can figure things out? That's totally obvious. Anybody could bulk up the same way, just so long as he didn't care about shrinking something else really important.'

'What are you boys talking about?' their father asked, looking up from his papers again.

Dylan said, 'Steroids, dad.'

'At your school? Why isn't something being done about this?'

'It already has been', said Dylan. 'Rod tells me that a few years back there was a big scandal where a lot of steroid abuse by Lawndale High athletes was exposed. So now the whole hyper-strict ultra-paranoid security régime that Principal Chung runs includes a battery of urine tests and everything else anybody could possibly want to catch any kind of wrongdoing. Principal Chung doesn't want anything to happen that could tarnish the honour of the school again.'

Dylan could see Kris's face relax. _Yeah, that's right_, he thought. _There's nothing for you to worry about. Unfortunately._

* * *

'Hey, did you hear the news about Blake?'

Kris raised an eyebrow. 'He got busted for steroid abuse?'

Stevie shook his head. 'Not steroids, something else, they said a masking agent.'

'Which he was taking to hide the steroids, as if it wasn't obvious to everybody what he was doing.' Kris looked at Simon.

'You know what steroids do to you?' said Tim. 'It's horrible.'

'So I guess Blake won't be joining the swim team.' Kris was still looking at Simon.

Stevie said, 'Lucky we've got four good swimmers for the medley relay, right?'

'Great athletic performances don't come from luck, Stevie', said Simon. 'They come from natural talent and, most importantly, a rigorously disciplined training program.'

'Yes, Simon. Sorry, Simon.'

'Good. Then I'll see you all at training.'

'Yes', said Kris. 'I'll see you all at training.'


	10. Sinning

**Dylan**

_**10. Sinning**_

'Here's your ticket to the roller hockey game', Rod said. 'You can pay me back later.'

'The roller hockey game?' said Dylan, face sour and body immobile.

'Yeah, you remember, faculty against DJs. You're coming with me.'

'You didn't notice that something has mistakenly been left out of that statement? I mean, like the word "not"?'

'You're not tempted by the opportunity to see the grudge match return encounter between Ms LeBeau and Rock 'N' Roll Rosanna?' When Dylan just grimaced, Rod took another tack. 'Okay, there's something else. I need you as my partner in crime.' Rod looked around to be sure they couldn't be overheard. 'Let me tell you what I've got in mind …'

* * *

'Dylan? Dylan?'

Dylan cracked open his eyelids and peered at the clock by his bed. His mother was waking him up when he'd only just fallen asleep.

'Dylan? What's that noise outside?'

Dylan opened his eyes a little wider and raised his head from the pillow.

'Mom', he said, 'that's just Dad and Kris arguing. They must have run into each other at the front door, coming home at the same time. You know you said Dad was working late tonight. It's just a happy coincidence that Kris got caught and is going to get grounded for being out too late.'

'Are you sure that's all it is? You don't think anything's happened to them?' Without waiting for an answer, Dylan's mother left the room and a minute later he heard the sound of her opening a window and calling out of it.

'Hank? Kris? Is that you? Are you okay? Do I need to come down?'

'Please, Jacquie, I can handle this!'

Dylan lay down again and gratefully went back to ignoring his family.

* * *

'I thought you said your brother was grounded', said Rod.

'My parents expect that to make a difference to him', said Dylan, 'but I don't know why you do.'

'I guess he's too big a sports fan to miss the game, huh?'

'Roller hockey? Faculty against DJs? He's the kind of sports fan who won't take that seriously, especially with both sides fielding mixed teams. Take a look beside him on his right if you want to know his real motive.'

'Well, fair enough. That'll keep his attention occupied. Now, you take a seat well back where people won't be looking, and especially where you won't be in line of sight for Joey Lyndon and "Van" Vandyke. We don't want anybody to notice when you give me the signal, especially not them, and they're more observant than most around here.'

Dylan nodded. 'Don't worry, I think I know a thing or two about staying under the radar.'

* * *

'You're not getting away from me with that puck, hippie!' grunted Ms LeBeau.

'Never call a rocker a hippie!' Rock 'N' Roll Rosanna rasped back.

Their sticks clashed.

'Isn't it exciting!' Tammy squealed. She grabbed Kris's left hand with both of hers.

He had carefully arranged himself so that she'd have to lean across him to do that. Now he put his right arm around her shoulders, gathered her closer, and gave an exploratory squeeze.

'Oh! What's that?' she cried out, reacting to a loud clattering sound in the rafters, like something being tipped over.

Something red poured down from above and splattered over the roller hockey players, especially Mr Storch and Ms FitzPatrick. People screamed. Kris squeezed Tammy closer.

* * *

'No', Dylan said to Rod, 'don't tell me where you got all that pig's blood. If I get interrogated about this, I can't accidentally give away what I don't know myself.'

Rod shrugged. 'I can't see anybody getting anything out of you in an interrogation, but just the same I'm going to ask you whether you're ready to admit it was worth coming tonight.'

After a moment's hesitation, Dylan nodded.

'So, that wasn't too bad, was it? First time's the hardest, you'll get used to it gradually. I'll see you tomorrow.'

Rod walked up the path to his front door, and Dylan set out for his own home. He was halfway up his own front path when he heard the footsteps of Kris arriving home behind him.

'How long do you think your grounding will be extended when Dad finds out you snuck out?'

'He's working late, and Mom's got a job too.'

'And you're going to bribe me not to tell them?'

Kris shook his head. 'Why would I care, anyway? They can ground me for as long as they like. I know the schedule for the neighbourhood security patrol, I can climb that lattice in less than two minutes, and they don't come into my room when they can hear my workout music playing.'

'If they knew the lattice was your getaway route, they could block it off.'

'If they knew about somebody rigging a bucket of pig's blood to fall from the rafters, they might think that was more important than a little minor curfew-breaking.'

'Anybody could have done that. There's no evidence.'

Kris laughed. 'It was an obvious Rod Rhode prank. You think he's never pulled stunts like that before? The principal might not be able to prove anything, but everybody knows your friend's reputation. Do you want Mom and Dad to hear about it? They know he's your friend—you know how pleased they were that you had one.'

Dylan groaned. 'All right. You don't rat to them and I won't rat to them.'

'Deal.' Kris moved away to the lattice.

Dylan walked to the front door. _Boy_, he thought, _it's almost like we're real brothers._ He spat into the bushes.


	11. Like Iron Filings To A Magnet

**Dylan**

**_11. Like Iron Filings To A Magnet_**

'BOOM!'

It sounded to Dylan as if a guitar in the basement had exploded. Rod's nearly completed sculpture collapsed.

Rod stood up and looked down at the ruins of his carefully crafted project. 'Okay, Tierney, we are going to have _words_. Come on, I'm going downstairs to thrash this out, man to slacker would-be musician.'

'I don't want to get involved in a family—thing', muttered Dylan, not moving from his seat on Rod's bed. 'This looks good, anyway.' He pointed at Rod's television.

Rod shrugged. 'Suit yourself.'

When he'd gone, Dylan said aloud, 'I didn't know Tierney was here.' He tried unsuccessfully to focus on _Sick, Sad World_. 'I wonder whether she's rehearsing with the rest of her band.' Dylan didn't even know how many there were in Tierney's band.

Or the gender balance.

Rod returned. 'You're coming with us to Alternapalooza, out at Swedesville, this weekend.'

'Us?' Dylan squeaked.

'You, me, Tierney, Jerry.'

'Jerry?' Dylan tried to stop himself from vibrating with tension.

'Rhythm guitarist in Tierney's band. They call it "Mystik Spiral"—"Mystik" with a "k"', Rod said unhelpfully. He smirked. 'Oh, and Jeri spells her name with an "i".''

Dylan cleared his throat. 'I didn't know you thought spelling was so important.'

'You know we're not talking about spelling. Did you even ask me what Alternapalooza is?'

Dylan just scowled at Rod.

'I'll tell you anyway. It's a big alternative music festival. Listen, it's gonna be fun! Come on, tell me you've got a jam-packed social schedule for the weekend and you can't manage to squeeze this in.'

'Where's that glue gun you were using before?'

'The Stickmata 5000? What do you want that for?'

'To glue your lips shut.'

* * *

'Kris, what have you—Hank, please, come and look at this!'

'Calm down, Jacquie! Now, what's this about?'

'Look, there, a tattoo! My son's got himself tattooed!'

Kris rolled his eyes. 'Don't worry, Dad, it's only a temporary tattoo. It'll wear off. I just got it to make an impression at Alternapaloooza this weekend.'

'See, Jacquie, there's no problem. Kris is just experimenting. You know he'll be fine.'

Dylan stared at Kris. '_You're_ going to Alternapalooza?'

'Sure, why not? Everybody knows that alt—I mean, why do you care, anyway?'

Dylan groaned balefully. 'Because _I'm_ going to Alternapalooza.'

As the two brothers locked eyes, their mother said, 'Well, that's great. My two boys going to the festival together. Hey, why don't we give them twenty bucks each for souvenirs or something, to help them enjoy themselves?'

'Sure, why not?' said their father, 'and we can have some time to ourselves to get a few things done.' The parents linked arms and left the room, without ever noticing the way Dylan and Kris were looking at each other.

'So why _are_ you going to Alternapalooza?' said Dylan.

'Most of the people I know are going. It's a normal teenage weekend activity. Half of Lawndale High is going, people from your grade too, like Kent and Karen and Joey and Van. It's only weird when geeks like you go.'

Dylan kept staring at Kris. 'And "everybody knows that alt" what?'

Kris looked round to check that their parents were definitely out of earshot. 'Everybody knows that alternative chicks are easy. But now instead of having some fun I'm going to have spend my time keeping you out of trouble. Why the hell _are_ you going?'

'Wasn't getting the hell away from you enough reason? until you spoiled that plan.' Dylan shrugged. 'Actually, it was Rod's idea.'

'You're going with Rod Rhode?'

'And his older sister, and his sister's friend.'

Now Kris shrugged. 'In that case, I figure you'll be safe enough.'

Dylan just grunted. So long as Kris stayed clear, he didn't care why.

* * *

There was no way Tierney's old wreck of a car would survive the trip all the way out to Swedesville, so she and Jeri were borrowing the reputedly indestructible 'Tank', as Mystik Spiral nicknamed their drummer's van. Rod met Dylan outside the Brocklethwaites' house to wait for them there.

When the Tank pulled up, Dylan saw Jeri for the first time. She and Tierney were occupying the only two seats in the front, so Dylan only glimpsed her face through the passenger window, as she reached round to push back the sliding door and open the back of the van. It was only when Dylan started to climb in behind Rod that he saw how Jeri's miniskirt and bikini-style halter-neck midriff top left little to the imagination; not that there was much, when he looked at Jeri, that imagination could have added.

She made him feel like one of Pavlov's dogs, and he hated it. He was so distracted as he finished climbing into the van that he banged his head against the door frame.

'You okay, Dylan?' said Tierney, looking at him head-on over the back of her seat as he sat down next to Rod on a battered old trunk.

Dylan closed his eyes so that he couldn't see Tierney or Jeri, and muttered, 'Nothing'.

He could still hear Tierney's voice.

And then there was her subtly perfumed odour.

He whimpered.

As a token gesture in the direction of appearing 'alternative', Dylan had dressed in the baggiest clothes he owned. He was grateful now for the bagginess of his pants. But he was worried about what would happen when he had to stand up again.

He kept his eyes closed and concentrated his attention on trying to reverse his involuntary physiological response.

It didn't help. He tried concentrating harder and realised that he was only counterproductively making his problem harder. He pursed his lips, pressing his teeth against them, and felt the sweat starting.

When the van slowed for a tollbooth, Dylan welcomed the distraction. Then Jeri and Tierney started talking about the toll collector. Apparently she'd been to school with them, and this got them started on the subject of how they would never abandon their artistic vision for a job like that.

Tierney's voice!

Rod nudged Dylan and said, 'Don't let these two do all the talking. They can keep this up for—I don't want to know how long. Change the subject and take your mind off your troubles.'

'Hey', Tierney said sympathetically, 'are you sure you're okay, Dylan?'

'Rod's right', Dylan said hurriedly, shifting his legs nervously, 'I should change the subject. Rod, tell me a story about something you've done, something I can use in my writing.'

Jeri said, 'You write stories, Dylan?'

Dylan was still fidgeting. 'Yes, it's kind of a hobby, fiction writers can always use details from real incidents, so tell me about one, Rod.'

'Incidents? You mean maybe like something that happened at a certain roller hockey game?'

'That kind of thing. But I already know about that one. Tell me something else, from before I came to Lawndale.'

'Well', said Rod, 'there was this one time, when I was smaller, I managed to figure out how to get myself into the ventilation system in a school building—'

Before they could get well into the story, the van went over a bump that took Tierney by surprise, and both Rod and Dylan fell off the trunk they were sitting on. Rod was peeved at Tierney, but Dylan was more concerned with manoeuvring himself back into a seated position on the trunk without coming fully erect.

'Hey', said Jeri, 'is it just me, or is that the smell of peanut butter?'

Rod cocked an eyebrow at Dylan. 'Something you sat on?'

Dylan, by now back in position, wasn't going to move again for anything and denied everything, although the truth was that he could feel that something squashy had attached itself to the seat of his pants when he fell on the floor. He still wanted to get rid of his other problem before dealing with any new ones, and succeeded in persuading Rod to continue his story.

The smell of peanut butter, Jeri said, was giving her an appetite. Dylan was just disappointed that it wasn't blocking out the smell of Tierney and her perfume. Then Rod noticed a bee. He got Jeri to pass him a rolled-up map so he could use it as a swatter, but the bee settled on Dylan's wrist and stung him just before Rod managed to strike it down. For a moment the sting took his mind off everything else and he gave a loud anguished cry.

'Dylan?' said Tierney, 'sounds like you got stung, huh?'

'No, nothing, just go on with your story, Rod.'

Rod's story didn't take long. As he was finishing it, the Tank approached a diner. Now both Rhodes had developed appetites to add to Jeri's, so by common agreement they pulled into the parking lot.

Rod hauled open the sliding door and started to get down to join Tierney and Jeri. He looked back over his shoulder and saw that Dylan hadn't moved.

'Aren't you coming?'

'No, I don't want any food. I'd rather just sit here and rest. Quieter, you know.'

'I could fetch something out for you', said Tierney.

'No, don't bother, I'll be fine, you three just go and—eat.'

After they'd gone, Dylan sat in silence and thought about options for incorporating details from Rod's adventures in fictional pranks. In a little while he started to feel better. His head was still sore where he'd banged it, and so was the bee sting on his wrist, but he unstiffened with relief.

He still felt some tenderness, but at least he didn't have to worry about that making itself visible.

He hoped he could look forward to his body's not reacting in quite the same way as he got older.

* * *

'Oh, _Hank_', Jacquie said. '_Again_!?'

* * *

Dylan didn't have long to spend with his triumph of determination over automatic response before the thwarting of one bodily impulse produced another awkward reaction. He needed to empty his bladder, urgently.

He got out of the van, entered the diner, and saw a waiter.

'Excuse me, can I use your bathroom?'

'Customers only.'

Dylan looked round and saw Rod, Tierney, and Jeri seated at a table. Tierney was putting something in her mouth. He looked away quickly, giving the waiter a surreptitious gesture in their direction.

'I'm with them.'

'Are you ordering anything? Bathroom for customers only. That's the rule.'

Dylan gestured again. 'Okay, I'll have the same as he's having. So can I use the bathroom?'

The waiter reached down behind the counter, produced a key attached to a large tag, and gave Dylan directions. Then, as Dylan turned away, the man said, 'You know you've got a sandwich stuck to your pants?'

'Uh, thanks. I'll, uh, throw it in the trash in the bathroom.'

He gave first priority in the bathroom, however, to urination. Only once his underpants, trousers, zipper, and belt were back in place did he peel away the sandwich. It was indeed a peanut butter sandwich, or it had been once—it looked nearly ready for carbon-dating. He tossed it in the bin, washed his hands, and then took the key back to the waiter.

As he turned away from the counter again, Rod hailed him, and he was forced to respond. As he approached the table, Tierney took a swallow of her drink.

'Got some food here for you', said Rod.

'Not hungry, just had to order to use the bathroom, you can share it, here's some money to pay for it, see you back in the Tank.'

Once he'd settled himself back into his place he concentrated on trying to move his attention from his physical surroundings to literary possibilities. He was still thinking about fictionalised versions of some of Rod's pranks when the others returned, fed.

As they drove off again, Rod guessed aloud that Dylan was thinking about stories. 'We may work in different media', he said, 'but I recognise the look of somebody getting creative inspiration. You remember when I showed you those sketches I did at Kent's party, and told you about some of the stuff that happened there? Stuff like that any use as source material for you?'

Dylan nodded.

'I got a few good drawings at Ms FitzPatrick's stupid Café Lawndale. Maybe some of the things that happened could give you inspiration. Come to think of it, I bet Ms FitzPatrick would love to have you read one of your stories or something at Café Lawndale. The closest thing she had to literature was Angus reading some stupid poem about wasting breath.'

'Angus?'

'You know, the goth. You must be able to do better than he can.'

'Oh, sure. You want me to stand up in front of my classmates and read them that essay I wrote after you showed me some of your sketches, the one where I compared each of them, by name, to a specific barnyard animal.'

Tierney laughed and a shiver ran up Dylan's spine. 'Hey, you really wrote something like that, Dylan?'

He managed a grunt to signal an affirmative response.

The van slowed to a crawl in heavy traffic, and they all stared out at it, willing the jam to clear.

It had been established earlier that there were no handles to allow the windows to be lowered for fresh air. Shortly Dylan picked up another whiff of Tierney's scent and felt a warning tremor. Then Tierney gave him another dose of her voice, comparing the scene to the traffic jam in the music video for 'Everybody Hurts'. In real life, of course, you couldn't see people's inner thoughts printed on the screen.

Dylan imagined Tierney and Jeri seeing a printout of his inner thoughts.

'Maybe we could play some sort of travel game to pass the time.'

'Travel game?' said Rod.

'Hmm', said Tierney, 'sounds like not a bad idea.'

Dylan was surprised when Jeri was the one who suggested 'I'm Going To The Picnic'. Rod was less keen, and insisted that Dylan go first.

'Oh', said Dylan. 'Um—I'm going to the picnic and I'm bringing a—a—an arous—arousingly scented food!'

Rod stared at him. 'Arousingly scented food?'

'What?' Dylan stared back. His choice might not have been the best one, but arguing about it was good, it would take his mind off things. 'It starts with an A, doesn't it?'

Rod stared even harder, as if Dylan's nose had grown as long as Pinocchio's. 'Okay', he said eventually, still staring, 'I'm going to the picnic and I'm bringing arousingly scented food and a bucket of pig's blood.'

'What? Another one?'

'You can never have too many buckets of pig's blood.'

There was a brief silence at this, and then Tierney said, as if she hadn't heard, 'Traffic's moving again.'

As the van sped up, Rod said to Jeri, 'Your turn now.'

'My turn?'

'In the game.'

'Oh, right. I'm going to the picnic, and I'm bringing—arousingly scented food, a bucket of pig's blood, and chocolate-covered ants.'

'Chocolate-covered ants?' said Dylan, his voice rising in disbelief.

'Sure. You never had them? My mom ate them all the time when she was pregnant. At picnics, too.'

'I had to ask. I thought my Mom's picnic food inventions were unbelievable enough, but I just had to ask.'

'You wanted to play the game', Rod said. 'Tierney, it's your turn.'

'Trying to concentrate on watching the road. Okay, I'm going to the picnic and I'm bringing arousingly scented food, a bucket of pig's blood, chocolate-covered ants, and—a donkey.'

'I'm going to the picnic', Dylan said, 'and I'm bringing arousingly scented food, a bucket of pig's blood, chocolate-covered ants, a donkey, and—and'—he looked down, thinking—'and an erec—sorry, and an eructatory habit.'

This time Rod looked at him as if Dylan's ears had fallen off. Rod didn't even speak, just tipped his chin up and his neck back to signify dumbfounded incomprehension.

'Eructation means belching', Dylan explained.

After a minute, Rod nodded slowly in a way that clearly signified that he was unfazed to find himself riding in a van with a loon. 'Then I'm going to the picnic, and I'm bringing arousingly scented food, a bucket of pig's blood—'

'Look out!' Tierney shouted suddenly, but just too late. The van hit a bump, and Dylan's glasses flew off.

'Sorry about that', Tierney said.

'Sorry!? I can't see without my glasses!'

Jeri had picked them up from the floor. The bridge had snapped. Dylan started to panic.

'It's okay', said Jeri. 'I can fix them.'

Rod offered his Stickmata 5000 glue gun.

'Are you crazy?!' said Dylan.

Jeri said, 'Pass me the duct tape. I know there's some in back there.'

'Duct tape', Dylan repeated flatly, as Rod found it and passed it forward.

Rod raised his eyebrows. 'You got any better ideas?'

Dylan continued quietly grumbling until Jeri handed him his repaired glasses. They looked ridiculous, but he put them on.

'Right!' said Rod, clapping him on the shoulder. 'You can see again. Okay!'

'Yeah', said Dylan. 'Okay.'

It was the exact moment of Dylan's uttering the word 'okay' that the Tank began to experience engine trouble. Tierney managed to guide it off the highway just in time, steam rising as it gave up completely.

'Sorry', said Dylan. 'Did I say "okay"? This is more than okay. This is perfection.'

They all got out and looked under the hood. In this way they could all obtain personal proof, through their individual eyes, that the engine was indeed busted. They all looked at each other, as if each expecting one of the others to propose a course of action.

Jeri was the first to give way and ask out loud what they were going to do.

Rod was the only one with any ideas. He pointed to a nearby noise wall, which he interpreted as an indicator of habitation behind it. He suggested Tierney and Jeri find a house and ask to use the phone to call for help.

'Dylan could do with a rest. I'll wait here with him.'

Dylan and Rod sat down on the grass. Dylan started to watch Tierney and Jeri walking away, then checked himself. Rod was right, he could definitely do with a break.

'So', said Rod airily, 'you holding up okay under the strain?'

'Are you used to always having this much fun on the weekends?'

'Are you used to doing something better on the weekends?'

Dylan just grunted, closed his eyes, and tried to relax.

A couple of minutes passed, and then Rod said, 'Jeri said I should bring you to the next Mystik Spiral gig.' He paused, then added, 'Of course, it is an all-female band.'

'Did I ask?'

This time about five minutes passed before Rod spoke up again.

'Females are part of the world. You're going to have to adjust to that fact sooner or later.'

'I thought you said I could do with a rest?'

Finally there was a silence that lasted until Tierney and Jeri returned to report that there'd been no houses behind the noise wall, only a cornfield.

Rod sprang to his feet. 'Right, we are not getting stranded here. Let's take another look at the engine. And somebody bring me the Stickmata 5000.'

Tierney said, 'What?'

'My glue gun.'

Dylan already knew that Rod was handy at rigging devices to work, but only when he was setting up a prank. Now the skill proved useful for a more prosaic purpose. When Tierney, from the driver's seat, confirmed that Rod's emergency repairs to the engine had it going again, Jeri suggested hopefully that they might still get to Alternapalooza for part of the show.

The approach of twilight suggested otherwise to Dylan, and Rod gestured to the rapid increase in the flow of traffic from the direction of the concert as a similarly negative indication.

Final confirmation was provided by three young women also walking away from Alternapalooza, two of them holding up the third. She had clearly had a _very_ good time at the concert, but that was the only thing she was clear about; she looked—and talked—like somebody who'd need all her time just to distinguish between the concepts of 'up' and 'down'.

Her two companions, however, after looking a little askance at Rod and his glue gun, were quite clear that the concert was over and that they needed to get their friend home, safe, without hanging around. Dylan gave them plenty of clear space.

On the drive back, they were all tired, and quiet enough for Dylan to manage a little fitful snoozing.

He was more alert by the time they reached Lawndale again. The Brocklethwaite house was dark and quiet when the van pulled up in front of it. As Dylan got out, he saw a convertible pulling up in front of him, and Kris getting out of it, waving goodbye to the female driver. He caught up with Dylan as they walked to the door.

'I didn't miss you at Alternapalooza', said Kris.

'The van broke down. We never even got there.'

Kris shrugged. 'Well, I didn't get everything I wanted, either. But I—made out all right.' He unlocked the door and opened it. 'No sign of Mom and Dad.'

'They've probably gone to bed. I'm going to do the same.'

'You just have no idea, do you?'

* * *

When Dylan came downstairs again the next morning, he found his parents in the kitchen, smiling and looking unusually comfortable with each other. His mother was making pancakes and preparing her own special filling; his father was frying sausages. He didn't want them to ask him about Alternapalooza, so he turned the conversation back on them.

'So, did you have a good time while Kris and I were out? You said you wanted some time to yourselves to get some things done.'

'We did.' Dylan's father nodded. 'About six.'


	12. Families

**Dylan**

_**12. Families**_

'Well, we won the big case! Erica says I can ease off on the fourteen-hour days for a while. She says I should use some of my vacation days before Human Resources starts taking them away, spend some time with my family.'

Dylan thought he had a fair idea what his father's boss, Erica Donnell, was like. Constantly calling Dylan's father about work, she was probably one of those hard-bitten career-obsessed women, consumed with life at the law firm of Donnelly, Donelson, MacDonnell, O'Donnell, Donnell, Donnell, and Donnell, patting herself on the back because she was making a token gesture at work-life balance for the benefit of her male underling. Any actual respect for the Brocklethwaite family, or any real family? Dylan doubted it. He imagined her concealed condescension as she suggested spending some time with the family.

Dylan gave his father a penetrating look. 'Did she actually use the expression, "that pretty little wife of yours"?'

His father shook his head. 'Dylan, you know we don't like you taking that kind of attitude. Do we, Jacquie?'

Dylan's mother seemed not to have taken in all of the exchange. She just said, 'Can we go camping?'

'I can take Friday off and we can make a long weekend of it, if it's not a problem for your business. How are things going?'

'Not too bad. I can spare the time to go camping. Of course there are a lot of bills at the moment.'

'I thought you were looking a little stressed. Well, we will take a long weekend camping trip and help you relax, the way we used to do.'

Dylan's father flashed his eyebrows, and Dylan figured it was a reference to the hippie phase his parents had gone through in college. They'd probably gone out regularly into the Great Outdoors to commune with Mother Nature. Dylan couldn't imagine it had actually made his mother any more relaxed, or that it would now. But if they left him alone in the house, it could make him more relaxed. That meant there was just one thing he needed.

'You should take Kris with you', Dylan said. 'He's a great camper.'

As Kris glared at Dylan, their father said, 'This is a family activity! We're all going!'

* * *

Rod cocked an eyebrow at Dylan. 'The Don Juan of Lawndale is going camping with his family for the weekend? So all our fair maidens will be safe?'

'It won't be as bad for him as it will for me. Kris used to love camping when he was in the Boy Scouts.'

'He was in the Boy Scouts?'

'By now he would have got every badge they hand out, except that puberty drew his attention to the segregation of the sexes and drove him to seek activities without that feature. He'll be back in a tent this weekend, though, and you don't have to guess who's condemned to sharing it with him.'

Rod shrugged. 'Well, it won't be as bad for either of you as it will at the family reunion I'm being forced to attend this weekend.' He pulled a suitcase from under his bed and started lobbing clothes into it.

'Where's that, then?'

'Somewhere in the Midwest. Don't ask me for details. When it comes to the extended family, traumatic memory loss is my best friend.'

'Do I hear that. I guess your parents have ideas about how to spend the weekend as warped as mine do.'

'My parents?' Rod paused in his task. 'They're not going. Sending me and Tierney to represent them gives an excuse for non-attendance. The only thing that makes the whole extended Lane clan feel close is the way they all despise our branch of it.'

'Lane?'

'My mother's family, not my father's.'

'So', said Dylan without inflection, 'you're the result of what happened when a Lane met a Rhode.'

Rod just looked back with an equal lack of expression.

Dylan nodded. 'I know, that joke wasn't funny the first time somebody made it. With the weekends we're both facing, I'm not attempting humour. What we need is preparation to face the worst.'

* * *

Rod snagged the window seat. As Tierney sat down next to him, she said, 'Hey, Roddy, when we get there, try to remember not to be too honest with people.'

'What, you mean like when Uncle Eddie wants to talk about his hunting trophies, or Cousin Joanie about her political aspirations?'

Tierney nodded. 'Yeah. Or like when Uncle Bernard asks about his facial hair.'

'Uncle Bernard?'

'Sure. You remember. Uncle Bernard, from Middlebury. Every time we see him he's got some new look, and he always has to ask me how I think it'll go down with the ladies. Last time it was a soul-patch.' Tierney shuddered. 'Put me off them for life.'

Rod looked past Tierney at the passenger taking the aisle seat, whose face was more thoroughly disguised with bushy growth than Yosemite Sam's, and said, 'Wouldn't this flight be the logical one to take from Middlebury?'

Tierney turned her head to follow Rod's gaze. 'Oh, er, hello, Uncle Bernard.'

'Hello, Tierney.'

'I like your …' Tierney gestured vaguely at her own face, and turned back to Rod. 'Don't you think that'll go down well with the ladies?'

Rod could see Uncle Bernard's reaction. 'Excuse me', he said to his sister, 'but have we met before? I don't think I know you.'

* * *

Kris marked out a campfire pit for his father to dig while he himself took charge of erecting the tents. His mother offered her assistance, but after she got in his way for the third time he suggested that she take Dylan and gather firewood.

'I could have learned how to do all those camping things if I'd been allowed', she complained to Dylan as they picked up sticks. 'I could have been a great Girl Scout! But no, Ma'am said it wasn't ladylike!'

'I thought you and Dad used to go camping when you were younger?'

'Oh, yeah!' She brightened for a moment, but then began complaining again as the memories rushed back. 'Dylan, have you ever tried hiking in earth shoes? They're thinner at the heel! You keep tilting backwards!'

Dylan remembered to keep his mouth shut and tried to ignore his mother as much as he could.

* * *

There were no signs of buses running when Rod and Tierney landed, and their Uncle Bernard took the last rental car and made a point of ditching them. They would have flown straight back home, but the airport closed. Eventually they found a taxi to take them to the Lane ancestral residence.

The door was opened to them by another Lane uncle, the one who'd never left home. He looked them up and down.

'C'mon', he said, reacting to their appearance. 'You couldn't make some kind of effort?'

With no more welcome than that, he showed them in. Almost immediately they got separated in a crush of Lanes. Rod found partial shelter in a corner of the room on a couch with an uncle or cousin who'd been drinking heavily.

'I know you', he said. 'Y'folks named ya aft'Abbie Hoffman, ri'?'

'No, that's my brother. He's not here, he's looking for work in Mexico. Or he may have moved on to Nicaragua, or somewhere like that.'

'Oh, ri'. Bu's still some kinda counnerculture thing, isn'it? Waterfall? Sky?'

'Waterfall's my sister with the two ex-husbands and a third on the way; Sky's my brother with the four runaway children', Rod said. 'I'm just Rod.'

'Oh yeah. Rod Rhode. Knew there w'something abou' the way it sounded.'

Meanwhile Aunt Maggie, overdressed and unwisely made-up, had cornered Tierney by the buffet table.

'You remind me so much of myself at your age, darling. I suppose you're beating them off with a stick. Well, I still am, of course. We attractive women have that cross to bear, nobody taking us seriously for anything else …'

By this time, Rod had been summoned from his corner to be officially addressed by his grandfather, who had an important question to ask him, namely, 'When the hell are you going to grow up?!'

* * *

Dylan was psychologically prepared, although not happy as such, to be woken early Saturday morning by Kris. Kris had announced on Friday night that he wanted to get to sleep early because he was planning a training workout first thing. The announcement he made when his dawn movements aroused Dylan was more disturbing. As he tied the laces of his running shoes, he said, 'You remember what Dad said before we left about how this camping trip was supposed to help Mom relax?'

Dylan tried to nod his head and mumbled an acknowledgement through the dispersing haze of sleep.

'I think that's what he's doing in their tent now, helping her relax. It's rocking a little, and there's noises coming from it.'

Dylan blinked, tried to wriggle out of his sleeping bag, and blinked again. 'Maybe it's just a bear', he said half-heartedly.

'Not that kind of noises.' Kris opened the tent flap. 'I'm going for a run. You should stay clear, too.'

As the sound of Kris's footsteps faded into the distance, Dylan sank back into a doze. Any excuse to avoid his family's company was good enough for him.

* * *

'Tierney and I could have used a few more excuses to avoid _our_ family's company', Rod said to Dylan.

'I still had to share a tent with Kris. It reminded both of us of how much we hated having to share a room when we were little.'

'Tierney and I wouldn't have minded so much when they told us we had to share a room, except what they meant was we had to share a room with Cousin Jenny, Cousin Kenny, Cousin Lenny, and Cousin Alice. Half the night was taken up with people complaining about other people making noise and about people mistaking other people for pillows.'

'Almost as if they'd been eating psychotropic berries.'

'So what is the story with these berries?' said Rod, picking up the jar containing the sample.

'All the facts didn't come out until after we got home. All I knew at the time was that, galling as it was, relying on my brother's Boy Scout woodcraft skills was a safer choice than relying on my mother's judgements of edibility. Not that I got any say, but Dad backed Kris up, and Mom still got to use us as guinea pigs for all her latest picnic food inventions, which were nearly as weird as chocolate-covered ants. And she likes deferring to Kris's Boy Scout knowledge because it gives her an excuse to complain about how she was kept out of Girl Scouts by the Ma'am.'

'The Man?'

Dylan shook his head. 'Not the Man, the Ma'am. My mother's mother: that's what everybody called her. I don't remember ever hearing her actual given name. She was a puritanical fundamentalist who raised my mother according to strict nineteenth-century ideas of ladylike behaviour, and Mom's been bitterly resenting her ever since. It's all "Ma'am wouldn't let me do this" and "Ma'am wouldn't let me do that" and "Ma'am never did anything to show she really cared about me". I don't know that Mom would really have enjoyed the Girl Scouts, but that's not the point any more.'

'I was a Boy Scout for a while.' As Dylan stared disbelievingly, Rod continued. 'They taught me a lot about booby-traps. Also about unexpected effects from ordinary household objects. I think it's thanks to my Boy Scout training I always know how to find things like pig's blood when they're needed. Of course, they called it things like rope use and woodcraft. I don't remember learning anything about berries, though.'

'What Kris said was that you should never eat anything from a plant you didn't know. He didn't actually know anything specific about these particular berries, but it turns out now that eating them produces hallucinations and abnormal behaviour. As it was, my weekend was only a hallucinatory experience in a rhetorical sense, not a clinical one, although when it comes to my family, abnormality of behaviour is very much a relative concept.'

'My family didn't eat any psychotropic berries, but as far as I'm concerned getting everybody up at seven o'clock on Saturday morning for an early start on the family croquet tournament counts as abnormal behaviour.'

Dylan turned his head and raised an eyebrow at Rod. 'Family croquet tournament? Isn't that a violation of the Convention Against Torture?'

'It's what got Tierney and me to borrow Uncle Bernard's rental car for a ride to the airport and out of there.'

'At least you had one reasonable relative, lending you the car. Did he want to make it up to you for ditching you at the airport on arrival?'

Rod raised his eyes to the ceiling with an elaborate air of nonchalance. 'Possibly. That could explain why he deliberately chose to leave the keys somewhere which was just naturally certain to be third on the list of places that anybody with Boy Scout training would look.'

Dylan didn't mention expecting that kind of borrowing from Rod. Instead, he said, 'I wish there'd been some way for me to make an early escape from our camping weekend by air. Instead I have to pin my hopes on your idea of traumatic memory loss. There's just so much to forget. My parents—reconnecting, a whole weekend of Kris and physical activities, hiking through the outdoors, scary stories around the campfire—'

'Did you at least get to tell one of your own, maybe get some of your own back?'

Dylan tilted his head to one side as he thought about this. 'Naturally I had to go last. Mom kicked off with a rant about a young girl being terrorised into constant nightmares by her mother's accounts of Hell, transparently derived from her own childhood. Then Dad told a story about a vampire and a beautiful young woman—have you ever noticed the sexual subtext in vampire stories?'

'Sure.'

'In this instance, the subtext was about to become text when Mom realised where the story was going and started making insufficiently surreptitious "not in front of the children" gestures to Dad, so he changed direction clumsily and the story became even more completely pointless than before. I don't know why our parents think they need to be coy about that sort of thing with us. You know what Kris's idea of a scary story was?'

Rod spread his hands. 'So, tell me.'

'He went with a fairy tale structure, but the effect of the witch's curse was that the handsome and athletic young hero had to spend money on endless dates without ever getting any action. And that gave me the idea of a story with a fairy tale witch: a revised version of "Hansel And Gretel", in which the witch succeeded in converting the two children into meals.'

'And that made your family feel scared?'

'It made them feel nauseated, and I was ready to take anything I could get.'

'And on that note, it's time for _Sick, Sad World_', said Rod, and turned on the television.

As he sat down next to Dylan, the _Sick, Sad World_ reporter held out his microphone and said to his interviewee, 'Tell us more about this jackalope.'

'It started calling my name', she said. 'Of course, everybody knows jackalopes can imitate human voices, but where had it heard my name? It's true that I have always had a powerful spiritual attunement with the deepest forces of nature …'

Rod gave Dylan a quizzical look. 'Sound as if she's been eating some of your psychotropic berries?' He looked again at the sample jar and said, 'I wonder how hard it would be to get hold of some more of these?'

'Why?'

'Spiking fruit punch with alcohol, that's old hat, but spiking it with psychotropic berries, that would show some creativity.'

Dylan looked at Rod's innocent expression. He trusted Rod—but he was going to be careful about drinking any fruit punch from now on.


End file.
